


the point where we shatter

by sensibleshroom



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Disaster Main Character, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anakin Skywalker Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Bail Organa, Bail Organa Lives, But We'll Have Fun, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, On gods we're gonna have some competence in this universe, Original Male Jedi Main Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Primarily focused on the OC, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Traveling Bail Organa, Trans Male Character, no beta we die like hux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensibleshroom/pseuds/sensibleshroom
Summary: Jedi Knight Tibalt Beleren thought it was the end of the line. Through the whole of the war, he had done his best to stay undercover, stay quiet and support the great generals, give them the best information he could to lead them to victory. He did his duty to the Republic, to the clones, and to his brethren. So, he could not imagine what he did to deserve this.Dying was not enough for the Force. No, Tibalt is not nearly done with his job. He's only just begun. Now if he only had a time traveling partner with him to help him fill in the gaps in his knowledge, because he is rapidly discovering there is precious little that he actually knows, and none of it is nearly enough to prevent the fate that is about to befall them all. Armed with nothing but a Jedi's heart and a politician's wits, will the mediocre Tibalt Beleren and exceptional Bail Organa be enough to stop the rapidly approaching apocalypse? Or will it all be for nothing?
Relationships: Mace Windu & Original Character(s), Original Clone Trooper Character(s) & Original Clone Trooper Character(s), Original Clone Trooper Character(s)/Original Jedi Character(s), Plo Koon & Original Jedi Character(s)
Comments: 150
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

Tibalt Beleren was accustomed to the sound of blaster fire. It had been his constant friend these past four years, ingrained in his bones, echoing in his brain even when he slept. He was utterly, utterly accustomed to it, and it was a tragedy that he was, really. The sound of screams of pain and carnage was practically a lover at this point, since he didn’t really have time for anything else.

He wasn’t used to it here. He was still injured from his disastrous extraction, still hurting, freshly decanted from a bacta tank, but the temple was burning, and the clones… The  _ vode _ were turning on them.

They barely felt like vode at all, blank and null in the Force, when once upon a time they had shone so brightly, and there was some presence here, deep and malevolent, choking out what little signature they gave off, and Tibalt had  _ no _ idea what was going on.

He was aimless, in a haze of painkillers that barely took the edge off, shirtless, barefoot, but he had his saber, and he had to fight. The healing halls were not far from the nursery, and Tibalt may not be a great general or as famous as the great masters of this war, but he had fought as many Sith as Skywalker and Kenobi, survived on his own with no backup in the wilderness, played his part as the dutiful little spy, and he had done  _ good. _

He could handle this. He could save the nursery. Why the clones were attacking was beyond him, why they felt so  _ wrong _ in the Force completely lost to him, but the creche masters were virtually defenseless in the face of this onslaught, and Tibalt was not considered the unseen and unknown duelist of his time for nothing.

He could do this.

The still healing wound pulled at his stitches as he dragged himself through the carnage, sticking to the shadows,  _ pushing _ at the edges of the clones’ perceptions to tell them to look away, don’t notice him, forget a dying Jedi trying to drag himself through the halls he had run through as a small child.

He didn’t know why this was happening, but the why never really mattered to him, did it? All that mattered was  _ do. _

Tibalt only managed to pull up short when he realized someone was staring  _ right _ at him, angry gold eyes locked on him.

That didn’t make sense.

Skywalker had blue eyes.

“Wha---” The clones weren’t attacking him, and when had Skywalker learned to push away perception? When had Skywalker learned  _ shatterpoint? _ You had to be innately talented in shatterpoint to trick the perceptions the way Tibalt could…

Skywalker was just staring at him, and Tibalt was woozy on his feet, trying to figure out why Skywalker wasn’t  _ doing _ anything but stand there and look at him. Did Skywalker even know his name? Doubtful. Tibalt never interacted with the more famous people of the war effort. He had a job to do, and they attracted attention.

They could have been creche mates, had Skywalker not come to the temple so late.

It took Tibalt a moment to realize Skywalker was  _ shattered. _ The Force was so in flux around him, so  _ wrong, _ so drowning in dark and light and a million other things, things Tibalt didn’t even know  _ existed, _ like Skywalker was righting and destroying everything all at once, and then Skywalker’s blue blade leapt to life.

That wasn’t good.

That wasn’t good at  _ all. _ Tibalt was a damned good duelist, but he also took a blaster bolt to the stomach and currently had a cocktail of drugs in his body. And Skywalker was… Well. Skywalker.

He had to get to the nursery. He had to save the babies.

“I don’t have time for this,” he breathed before he could stop himself, his eyes drifting down the halls towards the nursery, but Skywalker didn’t seem to agree.

The Jedi… Not truly a Jedi, was he? Charged him, and years of honed Trakata was the only thing that had Tibalt activating his blue blade in time to block. The two of them clashed, and Tibalt barely even registered the  _ power _ behind Skywalker’s blow, which was honestly a bad idea against a duelist like Tibalt.

Hopefully Skywalker wouldn’t catch on too fast.

Why was he  _ doing _ this? Was Tibalt trapped in some Force vision? He knew Skywalker was butting heads with the council, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the smoking body of a young one.

That wasn’t… That wasn’t  _ right. _

Skywalker swung at him again, and his rage washed over Tibalt, like his presence was somehow an  _ offense _ to him, which was wild. The two of them had never met. Tibalt blocked, barely, and deactivated his saber, sending Skywalker off balance before he reactivated with milliseconds to spare to try and get into his guard. The attack was blocked, and Tibalt was slammed back with a wall of Force.

He was tired. His head was spinning, and he barely managed to catch himself, Sokan training kicking in. With a gasp, he charged forward, ignoring the pain, and the two of them clashed,  _ hard, _ and  _ fast. _ Tibalt needed to get past him before the… the clones… they hated being called clones… before they got to the nursery. He needed to protect the creche masters while they evacuated the toddlers. That was what mattered right now.

Skywalker’s rage was oppressive. Had Tibalt not been drowning in drugs, it would have almost been a problem, could have made him freeze up and choke, but he was flowing with the shatterpoints as best as he could. Every crack that appeared he tried to take a hit at, and each time it was blocked. Tibalt’s saber roared in and out of life as he tried to hit Skywalker anywhere, anywhere at all, sweat slipping down red Devaronian skin as his purple eyes flicked this way and that for a possible escape route. He had to get around him. Had to distract him. Had to save the babies.

Skywalker was getting  _ pissed, _ and he still wasn’t talking, which didn’t seem right. Tibalt was too lost and confused to make his usual quips, but Skywalker always had an answer and a question to follow up.

He couldn’t keep this up. It was clear Skywalker was barely breaking a sweat, but Tibalt was struggling to keep up with his familiar, hyper-precise fighting style. Activate, reactivate, try to break the guard, run Skywalker in circles, try to put him to the wall, keep control of the herding, but Skywalker was too familiar with Tibalt’s underhanded tactics. Even if they’d never met, he was very much accustomed to a trickster opponent.

“My master would like you,” Skywalker said out of nowhere, and Tibalt stumbled.

Sudden, agonizing pain burst across his stomach for the second time in twenty-four hours, and Tibalt choked, because unlike the blaster bolt, he wasn’t recovering from that one. He could  _ feel _ his spine sever, his organs burn, and he was chest-to-chest with Skywalker, clutching at his shoulders as his lightsaber clattered onto the ground.

Skywalker let him drop.

Tibalt had lasted one minute.

The ground was so cold, and he couldn’t even bask in his warm blood, because all of it was cauterized.

There was a pause as Skywalker stared down at him with cold, angry eyes, and Tibalt coughed as the pain spread more, and more, and more.

Did Skywalker know their names?

Did he know the names of the people he was slaughtering so mercilessly?

He certainly didn’t know Tibalt’s.

Tibalt had only wanted to save the little ones.

They hadn’t asked for this.

Tibalt had. They… they never did.

Blasters filled the air around him, and Tibalt wondered if why even mattered. If it  _ ever _ really mattered.

Something in the Force cracked, and cracked  _ loudly, _ but he was just too lost and confused to understand why or how.

Death, as it was, is a very confusing endeavor.

And sometimes, it can have a bit of a twist.

.

.

.

.

.

Tibalt knew the whine of blasters. Of course he knew the whine of blasters. We’ve just established that. But this noise… This one was somehow worse. The throaty whump of Geonosian sonic blasters was something that haunted his dreams because of the very sight in front of him.

Nicanas Tassu, in pieces in front of him as he stared at the horror of the hit he’d missed, breath caught in his lungs while far behind him, the acklay screeched in rage as it tried to stab down at Obi-Wan Kenobi.

What.

What?

_ What? _

“Padawan Beleren! Get up!” Mace Windu was yelling at him, the same way he did so many eons ago, had it barely been four years? Had it… Had this… Had he…

This was a strange afterlife. He was pretty sure the Force didn’t look like  _ this _ when you died. Black blood was dripping out of his nose as he tried to figure out just  _ what _ was happening to him and  _ why _ it was happening so fast.

Blasters. He was being shot at, and they were about to be pared down to thirty bare survivors. In hindsight, a Padawan, senior though he was, should have never been brought here. It was insane enough that Skywalker was, if he was allowed at all, which Tibalt never believed he  _ was. _ He remembered avoiding him like the plague in the aftermath of the battle, pissed and trying to let his high strung emotions slowly and steadily leak out into the Force. They would have had to rescue Kenobi, anyways, but Tibalt was eighteen and mad and his master was dead in front of him  _ all over again. _

“Beleren!” Mace howled, and Tibalt had a strange realization that this was the first time he had  _ really _ seen death. What a shocking and late introduction for the padawan that was literally trained to be a spy.

Someone grasped him with the Force and  _ yanked _ him back, and Tibalt hazily realized that he must be in some sort of vision. He had just died, he knew that, so this must be some kind of initiation. Except… why was he  _ surrounded _ by shatterpoints? He was practically broken glass.

It was no matter. This was some kind of vision that demanded active participation, so Tibalt was just going to have to participate even as Mace let him sprawl across the ground. Without a word, Tibalt sprang to his feet and activated his saber, blocking a laser bolt as he tried to figure out just  _ why _ this memory felt  _ so _ real. He could  _ feel _ the heat of the sand and the pain from the cut just along his hairline. Why was he always so beat up, anyways?

Thoughtlessly, he deflected a bolt and shot it back at a droid. He was rarely in  _ battle _ zones, but he could handle himself decently well. Blasters were blaring around them, and Kenobi was  _ right _ next to him, a steady presence that Tibalt never really registered as  _ comforting _ before now.

This was the weirdest Force vision  _ he’d _ ever been in. Why was he having to participate? Was that how this worked? He wasn’t really someone that  _ got _ visions. As far as he recalled, they were more like flashes and impressions and…

Ah. Ceasefire.

Mace was next to him, feeling quietly concerned and tightly wrung. That was weird. Why would Mace in a vision notice he was fighting completely different? He was supposed to just notice the main things.

… Skywalker was here. Was this a weird roundabout way to force Tibalt to accept that he’d killed him? Tibalt, objectively, wasn’t feeling any particular way about that. Anger was never something he’d struggled with as a Jedi. Right now he was just  _ confused, _ and still processing.

Shock was something he’d never gotten a handle on.

Was he still in shock?  _ Could _ you be in shock in a Force vision?

Why was the Force putting him through…

Master Nicanus’s abnormally still body was in front of them, and Tibalt tuned out the words he’d heard a million times in his dreams as Dooku and Mace debated back and forth about whether or not the Jedi would be surrendering. The clones were on their way, after all.

“I’m sorry, my old friend,” Dooku said, and Tibalt had always been mildly perturbed by how sincere he sounded in that moment.

He hadn’t wanted the Jedi to ever be involved. Tibalt’s research and work pointed to as such. But the Jedi were always the dogs of the Senate, which was why he’d left in the first place.

The whirrs of the gunships came up, and Tibalt activated his saber, deflecting the blaster bolts with the ease of a master, because he  _ had _ gotten that good, hadn’t he? He was barely sweating. The war got much, much worse than this, and they’d lost well over one hundred Jedi today. It had been a massacre. A senseless, stupid massacre, and the clones, the clones that gunned down younglings, they had just…

Tibalt found himself glancing over his shoulder at the gunships as he deflected a bolt, hesitating at the sight of bright, shiny armor.

“Tibalt, get on the ship!” Mace ordered. He’d never been a patient man, and he could see the shatterpoints all over Tibalt. Hopefully he was interpreting them as weaknesses, shock in the wake of the loss of his master, because these Force ghosts, these  _ impressions, _ were interacting with him far too much for comfort. Impressions either knew everything or nothing, and they were acting like this was business as usual.

Smoking bodies of initiates, too young to even be a padawan. White helmets.

Maybe he hadn’t really been confused.

Maybe he had been a little mad.

_ “Tibalt!” _ His tutor in the ways of shatterpoint roared, and Tibalt heeded the warning, backing up rapidly even as he struggled to draw in breath.

Why was he back? Why was he here? None of this made sense. He could feel his black blood pulse under his skin, he could see he was young again, not that he had ever  _ not _ been young, he could feel how much lighter his horns were and how his teeth hadn’t quite met maturity yet in their sharpness. Hell, he could still feel the Padawan braid, leftover vestiges of the human somewhere in his lineage that granted him hair like a cis female even after he got on hormones.

Nicanus’s body was being left behind. He’d always hurt over that, even though they weren’t supposed to attach themselves enough to bodies to care. Tibalt should care even less. His own body couldn’t even burn. It took plasma to hurt him.

Tibalt backed up into the gunship, and someone reached to steady him. He ignored how plastoid covered hands felt on his flesh.

What was happening?

What was  _ happening? _

“Are you alright, sir?” One of the shinies called over the whirr of the gunship, and Tibalt blinked vaguely as his head twisted to look at the helmet staring at him, tilted ever so in concern.

These couldn’t be those same blank points in the Force that had destroyed his home. They had been so bright, so vibrant, so bursting with life before they marched on the Temple.

Those clones couldn’t have been  _ his _ vode. It just didn’t make sense.

“I’m fine,” Tibalt replied with a dry, painfully dry throat.

“Tibalt!” Mace shouted over the engine, and Tibalt turned to look at him with blank, glassy eyes. Mace looked like looking at him  _ hurt, _ and Tibalt couldn’t blame him. It was agony just to sift through all of these fracture lines surrounding him. He felt  _ vulnerable, _ even if the fracture lines themselves didn’t.

“Stay calm!” Mace ordered, and Tibalt stared at him for a long, long moment as he tried to reconcile.

He hoped Mace survived the massacre. He knew it was going to hurt him when Tibalt didn’t. Normally, the separation after being knighted from your master was slow and steady, inch by inch, but Tibalt had been ripped away from Nicanus so abruptly and forcefully, so Mace had stepped in to fill in the gaps in his absence. There were no grandmasters to rely on, after all. Nicanus’s master had died of old age  _ long _ before Tibalt came into the picture, but Mace had always been there to help him when his shatterpoint gifts came to the forefront soon after his apprenticeship. No one else at the Coruscant temple was so gifted in shatterpoint, and Tibalt’s affinities had been  _ overwhelming _ at first.

He’d relived Nicanus dying many, many times. So why did  _ this _ time feel so much more real?

“I’m fine!” He shouted and gave Mace a watery smile. This had to be some kind of sick trick by the Force. What had he done to deserve this? He thought you just ‘became one’ and that was it.

“Stay close to me!” Mace ordered, and Tibalt slowly blinked in confusion.  _ That _ was new.

“We’re touching down at the command center, sir!” A vod called and Tibalt watched as the red sands of Geonosis rose up and blew out while the gunships came down.

Lots of people were going to die today. He really disliked being a bystander once again.

“Tibalt, come on!” Mace called, and Tibalt hopped out after him, drifting behind him as he ran his hand through his black hair, trying to figure out why  _ all of this _ felt  _ so different. _ The sand in his lungs, the way it brushed against his padawan robes, sank into his pores, the way the wind whipped around his face… All of it felt so different.

Hadn’t Knight Labooda just died? Mace seemed like he was trying to keep his cool. Tibalt vaguely recalled that he had rescued her and his other padawan as a child.

Billaba hadn’t died, at least.

Mace was not letting him out of his sight. This was  _ very _ new. Very new indeed. Hadn’t Billaba been the one that kept Tibalt close while Kenobi and Skywalker went seeking glory and Dooku? All of this was very, very wrong. If Tibalt recalled correctly, it was this battle that got him promoted to Knight, rather than letting him go through his trials under Mace’s guidance. It was a difficult time.

He needed to get in the mindset of battle, but he felt like a distant, impartial observer, and Mace could see it all over him. Why was this vision so  _ real? _ Was that just what happened when you died? Relived all of your mistakes? He knew the Force was impossible to understand, but he didn’t think it so  _ heartless. _ What had he done to land himself  _ here? _ How could such a punishment be a lesson?

Mace was watching him like a hawk out of the corner of his eye as they threw out battle plans and ideas, and Kenobi came in on the comms to inform them of his Dooku hunt. Right. Skywalker was about to stupidly get his arm chopped off. And then the two of them were going to get knighted, and Skywalker was going to get saddled with his first apprentice within a bare few months of becoming a knight, and Tibalt was going to fade into unknown obscurity and become the spy the order so desperately needed.

And then Skywalker was going to murder him in four years, and Tibalt didn’t know  _ why. _

That was just how things went now.

He was already dead, so why was the Force  _ teaching _ him?

“I’m taking a squadron of commandos,” Mace announced, and Tibalt dialed back in on the conversation. A glance was given to Tibalt. “Padawan Beleren will stay here. Someone needs to organize comms.”

That… Wasn’t how that went. Tibalt was supposed to be sent away in the conflict, hastily knighted, and left to his own devices. He wasn’t supposed to  _ organize _ anything.

“In shock, Padawan Beleren is,” Yoda purred, and Tibalt opened and shut his mouth. “To the ships, he will go.”

“No,” Tibalt said, and surprised himself.

If this was about the Force teaching him how to forgive Skywalker, he knew  _ exactly _ where he was supposed to be.

“No?” Yoda always seemed to know something. Whether or not he knew this was a vision was up in the air, but he knew something.

“I’m following Skywalker and Kenobi,” Tibalt suddenly said, and Mace blinked.

“You’re what now?”

“They need backup. Get me a gunship,” he ordered and Mace openly stared at him.

“That’s not safe,” he said and Tibalt raised a brow.

“And making myself the primary target on a battlefield is? Kenobi and Skywalker were probably starved and beaten for days, they’re in no condition to take on Dooku alone. Even  _ if _ they’re part of his lineage, I don’t think he’ll go easy on them.”

He never did. Tibalt could  _ never _ understand how he could treat his grandpadawan and great-grandpadawan like that. Jedi didn’t have families, but lineages were  _ important. _ Besides Feemor and Yoda, they were all he had.

Yoda was staring at him with an unreadable expression, but there seemed to be equal parts concern and worry in his presence.

“A gunship, Tibalt will take,” he decided. “Go, Padawan Beleren.”

“Yoda!” Mace protested, but Yoda’s word was law, and Tibalt was already ready to run.

He just wanted to get out of this vision. Save Skywalker, come to peace with what just happened, and he could pass on. It wasn’t the  _ real _ Skywalker. This Skywalker hadn’t plunged his saber into his chest. Tibalt could handle this.

Though, really, the Force needed to work on this whole “processing period” thing. It could have  _ waited. _ He could have had a second to  _ breathe. _

Tibalt climbed into the gunship and looked down at Mace, whose brows were furrowed in concern and confusion as he watched his surrogate padawan lift off into the sky.

Mace knew something was wrong.

  
The question was why it  _ mattered. _


	2. Chapter 2

There was a shatterpoint on the gunship, which Tibalt did  _ not _ need right now. He had four troopers with him plus the gunner and pilot, and the last thing he needed was the first clones he had under his command getting shot down in the very opening number of the clone wars. Tibalt rarely was put in command of vode when he was alive. He was often sent on his own, infiltration and contacts, and when he got into trouble, he got himself out. There were a handful of times Mace had to extract him with  _ his _ troops, but for the most part, Tibalt didn’t interact with clones. He was too busy playing pirate or smuggler or bounty hunter, whichever role he needed to slip into.

Technically, he was a General, or at least a Commander right now, but he never needed to pull rank. He had his own things to deal with.

“Sir, we’re reaching the Jedis’ last known coordinates!” A clone called over the noise of the gunship, and Tibalt pursed his lips. Kenobi and Skywalker would likely try to take the count on their own. They were like that, and war had never managed to temper that stupidly reckless nature.

Tibalt was not so stupid. He knew that at least right  _ now, _ before the clones went null and void and… terrifying, they were perfectly qualified to give him support. But they were  _ also _ shinies.

Would he take shinies up against Ventress?

Probably not.

“What’s your name?” Tibalt called on impulse over the whirr of the engines.

“CT-3467, sir!” The vod sounded off, and Tibalt rolled his eyes.

“I said name, not designation,” he called and there was a sudden dip in the Force.

He just changed something.

Why would it matter that he changed something in a vision?

“... Nuts, sir!” The clone reported. “That’s Bolts, and that’s Yacht, and he’s Rumple. Gunner is Boomer, and the pilot is Aces.”

Nuts. Bolts. Yacht. Rumple. Boomer. Aces.

He was committing those to memory.

“Padawan Tibalt Beleren,” he shouted as the sight of the hanger bay came into view. There was a wreckage below, and his stomach went cold. “Alright, vode, I’m going to engage the count. Do we have a medic in here?”

“That’s Rumple, sir!” Bolts sounded confused.

Ah. Tibalt had just called them vode. Welp. At least it was just a vision.

“Get down there and check for survivors! You’re all a little green for me to take you in with me to fight off a S… Force user, so I’m going to need a convenient escape route. Get your brothers situated!”

He could sense that there were survivors in the wreckage, but they wouldn’t be survivors for much longer. It was entirely possible the men in that wreck hadn’t survived the first time around. But his little squad could handle that. The two living clones needed to be stabilized.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but aren’t  _ you _ a little green?” Yacht asked dubiously, and, oh, yeah, Tibalt was going to have problems with this one.

“Less green than you!” He teased, but his smile with rows of sharp, sharp teeth was strained.

The hanger was coming up, and Tibalt tried to wrack his brain with how Dooku got away last time. He knew he took Skywalker’s arm and he knew he fought Yoda, but hadn’t Yoda just sent  _ Tibalt? _

Oh, gods, they were all going to die. Tibalt still wasn’t over the  _ last _ time, and the muscle memory of this body was all wrong.

The gunship pulled up and Tibalt sprang out of it.

“Land and get the boys out of that wreck!” He shouted as he broke out into a run for the hangar. There was the sound of lightsabers clashing and hitting one another, electronics whirring, and Tibalt didn’t even pause in his stride as the lights went out. His feet pounding on the floor, he leapt forward, lightsaber igniting, and Dooku caught him just in time.

Not even pausing, Tibalt deactivated and ducked, reactivating just in time to swipe left, right, and Dooku backed up while Skywalker looked wildly confused at the other padawan. Ah, wonderful, Kenobi was down. Two padawans versus a Sith lord. Tibalt was going to get them killed.

“I don’t recognize you,” Dooku said, almost in surprise, and went back on the offensive, swinging down at Tibalt. Tibalt caught the saber on his, shoving back with a push of Force just to throw off his aim ever slightly, a very delicate technique, and deactivated, swinging left, right, pushing Dooku back towards Skywalker, who was practically bleeding rage.

He really needed to work on that temper. It wasn’t helping him.

“I don’t stand out much,” Tibalt snarked before he could stop himself, like he somehow didn’t have cherry red skin and actual horns.

An unremarkable padawan from an unremarkable master. That was what he had always been, and now he was chasing after Sith lords on desert planets. When had everything gone so south? He was changing  _ everything. _

What if this wasn’t a vision?

Dooku seemed actually surprised by the speed of a padawan that  _ wasn’t _ the already infamous Anakin Skywalker. He knew Skywalker hadn’t lasted long against him the first time around, but with the two of them now, they were keeping pace with the Sith lord. In fact, Tibalt was almost picking up Skywalker’s slack, and wasn’t  _ that _ weird?

He was also probably surprised at how easily the Devaronian blended styles. Makashi, Trakata, Sokan were Tibalt’s primary styles. Skywalker had failed before because the only thing that stood against Makashi was Makashi or a blended style  _ with _ Makashi, and Makashi was considered obsolete and rarely taught. Qui-Gon Jinn had never taught it to Obi-Wan, and as such, Obi-Wan didn’t teach it to  _ Skywalker _ until after that  _ disastrous _ encounter with Dooku.

A padawan like Tibalt shouldn’t know Makashi, and indeed, at this point in his life, he barely knew the basics, focusing more on Soresu and Trakata, and not using his shatterpoint in combat. The war had changed that.

Dooku was finding himself hard pressed to find a gap in Tibalt’s defenses, and Tibalt took advantage of that, striking at each weakness and pushing him on as he tried to navigate around Skywalker’s wildly reckless style. He was leaving himself  _ wide _ open, and, ah, there was the moment he was supposed to lose his arm. Not on Tibalt’s watch. He had a Force vision to get himself out of.

Tibalt’s saber ignited at precisely the right moment to catch Dooku’s strike, and he pushed up and back, sending him off, before he drove forward aggressively. Dooku was probably hating this. He always considered a good lightsaber fight a dance, and Tibalt was just  _ not _ letting it turn into that. He was  _ far _ too aggressive to dance around.

Tibalt should have seen it coming. A Force push sent him flying back, and he twisted to land lightly on his toes, sliding back along the floor, before he flung himself forward, his saber igniting at the precise moment, only for him to flip it in a feint and swing it  _ under _ Dooku’s guard, but the master duelist caught it in the nick of time.

Dooku, it seemed, was hell bent on keeping Tibalt out of the equation, because another blast of Force sent him flying back, crashing into Kenobi on the floor.

“Sorry!” Tibalt yelped as he stumbled back to his feet.

Too late. There went Skywalker’s whole kriffing arm, because he was an idiot at this stage that was far too arrogant about leaving his guard open. Tibalt let his mild irritation at the situation leak out into the air around them, and Dooku lifted his brow.

“You control your emotions far better than Skywalker, don’t you?” He asked. “What is your name, padawan?”

“It doesn’t really matter right now,” Tibalt bit out before flying forward, his eyes darting to the ship. He couldn’t take Dooku on  _ forever. _ But he could wreck his ship.

Dooku caught the glance, and out of  _ nowhere _ electricity caught Tibalt, sending him flying across the room as he let out a scream of pain.

Force, he forgot about that.

“A pity,” Dooku said quietly as Tibalt laid there, panting, his body on fire and killing him slowly. Why couldn’t he be  _ every _ kind of heat proof? That  _ hurt. _

There was a tap of a cane on the floor, and Tibalt barely even registered as he was lifted up and senselessly flung on top of Skywalker and Kenobi. Dimly, he realized that Yoda and Dooku were talking, and Skywalker was quietly moaning in pain. Gods, why were humans so  _ warm? _ It never  _ didn’t _ feel weird.

The Force descended on the hanger, oppressive and dark, and Tibalt tried to push past the pain of electrocution, knowing that deep in his heart, he  _ needed _ to get on that ship and disable it. Where was his lightsaber? Had he dropped it? Nicanas was going to be so mad…

Nicanus was dead. Right. He’d forgotten about that. He’d been dead for four years, and Tibalt had been reliving it every night for just as long, so why was he worried about it  _ now? _

Since when did Force visions hurt, anyways? The afterlife was weird… It wasn’t like he even  _ had _ to forgive young Skywalker, anyways. The warning signs were there, yes, but something had happened in the war that pushed him over the edge. A lot of things happened in the war that nearly pushed a  _ lot _ of Jedi over the edge. But, then again, even Barriss hadn’t tried to kill many people. Skywalker had apparently decided genocide was an acceptable answer, but so had Krell.

“I have to get up,” Tibalt muttered, but  _ Force, _ he was so damn tired of  _ pain. _ No one had ever promised that the afterlife would be free of it, but he had hoped. He’d spent four years in pain for something or another. Couldn’t he have a break?

He wasn’t being a very good Jedi, but did Jedi or Sith or in between even matter in the afterlife? Did the Force care? Tibalt didn’t.

He needed to get up. Laying on Skywalker was beyond uncomfortable. Even if this was all a fevered afterlife dream, he didn’t want to be cuddled up on him.

Kenobi hissed in pain, and Tibalt briefly realized his squirming had resulted in stabbing Kenobi with a horn.

He’d never gotten careful about where he put those things.

“Sorry, Master Kenobi,” Tibalt breathed out as he tried to push the pain down and behind him, but it wasn’t working. Why did Dooku insist on putting the one with the horns on top?

Tibalt needed to get up, but before he realized it, there was creaking and groaning coming from above him, and  _ ah, _ that was right. Dooku nearly crushed Skywalker and Kenobi to create an escape route. How very Makashi of him.

Kenobi made a noise of concern, but Tibalt just blankly stared at the massive structure hovering above him as Yoda let out a grunt of exertion. The ship fired up and blasted off, followed by blaster fire and shouting as the damned Senator they had come to collect finally rolled up.

“Padawan Beleren, are you alright?” Kenobi hissed as he struggled to sit up, and Tibalt let out a low groan, the smoke still curling off his clothes.

“I’ve been better,” he gasped.

“Sir!” How had the presences of that squad already become so familiar? They were running towards him, concern pouring off of them in waves, and gods, they needed someone to teach them about shields.

“Anakin!” Padme Amidala practically screamed as she ran forward, and Tibalt blinked several times as he took in the sight of the shatterpoint existing right there, right between the two of them.

No.

No, that was  _ not _ what had happened.

_ No. _

For a  _ woman? _

All of the Order, all of his  _ family, _ his  _ culture, _ his  _ home, _ for a single  _ woman? _

It was only then that Tibalt belatedly realized that he had, in fact, been killed by a war hero who didn’t even know his name for no other reason than his crime of being a stepping stone between Skywalker and Senator Padme Amidala, been flung into a Force vision that was forcing him to relive the day his master died in front of him because he was  _ trying to save the two of them, _ been electrocuted and it  _ actually hurt, _ and presumably had his entire culture systematically wiped out by the clones who had been wiped into something they  _ weren’t, _ and that was too, too much.

Rumple was trying to help him up, but it was just  _ too _ much. Tibalt was going to faint.

“Reclaim your muscle memory, you must,” Yoda said on the faintest edges of Tibalt’s consciousness, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately we will not meet Bail for awhile, and Finn even later, but at least we got our squad!!!
> 
> [ discord!!](https://discord.gg/wF2Fvef)
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

Tibalt had always possessed a deep distaste of the medical wing. Not because he minded being poked and prodded with tools and equipment, but because of how _ boring _ it was. The lectures from healers didn’t really help, either, and Tibalt had gathered a reputation in his knight years for being the worst patient on the planet, too reckless with his body, willing to get caught in explosions and forget that the primary damage was done by the percussive blasts.

But this did  _ not _ sound like the normal healing chambers. He first realized this when he registered the whirr of the engine around him, and then the beep of heart monitors. With a groan, he let his eyes slowly open, blinking in the cold ship air.

Ah. He was on an acclamator class ship. And he was not alone.

“He’s up,” someone whispered and there was a shush.

“Give him a  _ minute, _ guys,” someone hissed and there was a squeak of vode in armor shuffling around.

“Should we tell a medic…?”

“He’s a Devaronian, he just needs to walk it off, it’s fine,” someone insisted, and he vaguely registered the presences as the squad that had been stuck with him at the very start of the battle. The ones he’d told to prioritize their brothers over helping him. Because they were going to die if they were left in that wreck.

… Was the vision not  _ over? _ Had he not helped Skywalker  _ enough? _ Shouldn’t he get participation points or something? Why was this something entirely new, a memory he never  _ had? _ After Geonosis, he’d never even  _ gone _ to the medical wing. There hadn’t been a need. He’d been sent back to the ship because they didn’t trust a padawan who just watched his master die in front of him in combat. Which was honestly fair, but that didn’t stop anyone from knighting him. He’d bounced back fast, but Tibalt had never struggled with connections like other people.

“Sir?” Someone asked as Tibalt blinked hard, his eyes swimming in and out of focus.

“... Squad?” He mumbled.

“Domino Squad, sir!” Someone sounded off as Tibalt fully came into himself.

… This wasn’t a vision, was it?

… Oh, kriff, this wasn’t a vision, and he hadn’t just  _ stepped _ on a butterfly, he’d trampled over an entire butterfly  _ exhibit. _

With a groan, he sat up and stared blankly at the bed across from him, housing an unconscious Skywalker, who had a new attachment in his arm, just waiting to test the nerve connections before they slapped on a new arm.

_ This wasn’t a vision. _

What in  _ the _ unholy hells was going on here?

“What are you all doing here?” Tibalt mumbled and rubbed his eyes before he took in the sight of the ‘Domino Squad’. No paint, no tattoos yet. Just clones waiting to find their personhood. Rumple was missing, probably busy with the injured, and the gunner and pilot he hadn’t met were nowhere to be seen. They were probably checking over their gunship.

“We wanted to check on you, sir!” Bolts replied.

“Did you manage to get anyone out of the wreck?” Tibalt asked hoarsely as he ran his fingers through his messy hair and reached for the tie he kept on his wrist to twist it up and out of the way.

“Yessir! Two men!” Bolts reported and Tibalt nodded slowly. He needed some water. His throat was hoarse. “Master Kenobi said you got fried pretty bad, so we thought we’d swing in and check on you!”

“Where is Master Kenobi?” Tibalt asked, remembering that Dooku had sliced him up pretty badly. Nearly got to the bone, he was willing to bet. It had to hurt.

“He took a dip in bacta and now he’s with the council, sir,” Nuts replied. Tibalt’s clothes smelled of smoke. He wanted to change out of them. This was terrible.

It would have to wait until they got back to Coruscant. He was going to have to give a report to the council.

_ “Reclaim your muscle memory, you must.” _

That still did  _ not _ sound good. Not good at  _ all. _

“Well, thank you for checking on me,” Tibalt finally rasped out, still trying to puzzle out how in a matter of hours the Force signatures of all of the clones, all at once, had changed so  _ drastically. _ These vode were hard, yes, serious minded men of means and purpose, but they were still glowing faintly in the Force, clear and present, not just  _ blanks, _ like hastily wiped chalk on a board.

Had all of that really happened?

If this wasn’t a vision… Was his past a vision?

No. No vision would do that. He would have been put in a coma to live through four years, and he wouldn’t have just woken up in the middle of a fight on Geonosis. He was strong in the Force, yes, but not  _ that _ strong.

None of this made  _ sense. _ And he had a feeling the more he tried to make sense of it, the less it would settle. Was he supposed to fix things? Learn something? What place could he possibly have here? He spent most of his time undercover in the war, drifting around with pirates and smugglers, slipping behind enemy lines on his own to discover things about the Separatists. His work was  _ important, _ yes, but he was ultimately the cause of  _ maybe _ six major missions and nine battles, which wasn’t much at all. The rest of the time he spent ‘sleeping’, waiting for an activation. The only thing that could be said for him was that he got  _ very _ good at disguises and handy with a blaster. Sure, he had run  _ many _ missions solo, without a crew or backup, and it was there that he honed his craft with a saber, but he wasn’t…

He wasn’t important. Skywalker and Kenobi couldn’t be replaced. Kit Fisto couldn’t be replaced. Plo Koon couldn’t be replaced. Mace Windu couldn’t be replaced. But little Tibalt Beleren was very much replaceable.

If he had been sent to fix things… What was he supposed to  _ do? _ He set things in motion as Knight Beleren, but he didn’t keep them going. He’d never even  _ met _ Skywalker, and only knew Kenobi from his occasional forays into the sparring gym where he’d give anyone some pointers, and even then, he rarely spoke to or saw Tibalt because Tibalt was a.) extremely busy and b.) accustomed to  _ entirely _ different styles that Kenobi had no expertise in. Kenobi was a straight forward, honest duelist. Tibalt was a trickster. Kenobi had nothing to really say to him. When Tibalt got into trouble, only a select few Jedi were cleared to rescue him due to the nature of his work, and Kenobi was not one of them. In fact, Tibalt was pretty sure only Mace had ever retrieved him for extraction, and only Plo Koon and Yoda were permitted to go in his stead. No one else even knew what Tibalt even  _ did. _

He needed help. Other perspectives. A new approach. He needed to do  _ something. _

“Sir?” Yacht was speaking up, cautious and hesitant, and Tibalt ripped his attention away, briefly realizing he felt the need to cry.

“Yes, Yacht?” He asked hoarsely, and all three troopers shifted uncomfortably.

“We heard about your master,” Yacht admitted, and Tibalt briefly realized how  _ cruel _ it was that he was sent back milliseconds  _ after _ Nicanas died. He couldn’t have done anything, and the helplessness was going to eat him alive.

“I see,” he grated out, and the loss ached all over again.

Maybe he’d never really gotten over it. Maybe he never had the time.

The Force had felt so  _ wrong _ in those moments leading up to his death. The knowledge that it was not an apparition he fought beside, but the  _ real _ Skywalker, was churning his gut. Maybe he should have let him die. That might have solved their problems before they even started.

Well. It wouldn’t have solved the clone problem. It definitely would not have solved the clone problem. But he had four years to figure it out, right? A lot could happen in four years. Force, why  _ Tibalt? _ He was a nobody, a sweet talker and a little too fast and loose for the council’s tastes, with the threat of quarantine in the temple once the war was over so he could loosen up on his wildling habits.

He needed to fix things. That had to be why he was here. Getting sent back in time didn’t make sense otherwise, especially with  _ such _ a narrow window. Four years. He couldn’t even stop Sifo-Dyas from requisitioning the clones in the first place, or the invasion of Naboo, or the reemergence of the Sith, or Dooku leaving the order after his once-Padawan died so horribly. He couldn’t fix  _ any _ of that.

The Force could have given him some damn  _ wiggle room. _ Tibalt had never been irritated with the Force before, but he was  _ definitely _ miffed right now. The man that brutally murdered him was lying unconscious in a bed in front of him, and he just got a bunch of vode attached to him because he immediately treated them like actual sentient beings like so many of the Jedi had to  _ learn _ how to do as the war dragged on.

“What are you all doing hovering around my patient, huh?” Rumple’s voice cut through the cluster of anxious clones and he strode forward, pulling up his reader to give Tibalt a checkup.

“Hello, Rumple,” Tibalt said and let his eyes slide shut as Rumple paused in shock that he could tell him apart so quickly.

“I told you he could,” Nuts said with an angry huff. “Pay up, Rumple.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rumple muttered. “Not in front of the Jedi, gentlemen. Padawan Beleren, how are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit with lethal amounts of electricity and passed out,” Tibalt replied dryly. “Are we almost at Coruscant?”

“We are, sir,” Rumple replied. “Two hours out. Master Windu and Master Yoda want to see you once we let you loose.”

“I’m good to go,” Tibalt said and Rumple put a  _ firm _ and  _ warning _ hand on his shoulder.

“You’re good when I say you are,” he said flatly. “Let me run your check up.”

With a grumble, Tibalt submitted to his check up, running through reflexes and Rumple looking up Devaronian physique and differences from the human body.

“Is your musculature supposed to be like that?” Rumple muttered as he checked Tibalt’s arms and legs.

“Yes,” Tibalt replied dryly and pointed to the hormone implant on his stomach. “Only so much hormone replacement therapy can do, soldier.”

Rumple blinked a few times before his face cleared.

“Let me update that in your chart and make sure your implant didn’t get fried,” he said and tapped on his datapad, marking Tibalt as trans before he got a tool to read the input from the implant. “Looks like it’s in good shape, but the hormones are low, probably need a replacement canister soon.”

“I know,” Tibalt said dryly. “It gets changed once a year.”

He wasn’t worried about the implant. It would take a little more than Sith lightning to fry it. Though it was weird as hell to see the bulky thing in his skin. He was used to it being much smaller and unobtrusive. When had they switched it out again? Six months from now, with a longer canister life, giving him two years per replacement, and making sure the thing could take a blaster bolt or two.

“Well, you look fine. Heart rate normal, temperature a little low, but that’s space for you, blood work’s fine…” Rumple swapped through his datapad before finally nodding. “I think I can give you the all clear.”

“Thank you, Rumple,” Tibalt said and immediately swung his legs off the bed while the vode hovered anxiously around him.

… Ah. This was what Jedi meant by accidentally adopting troopers.

Tibalt was going to get stuck with these ones, wasn’t he? Was he even going to be  _ allowed _ to be a spy this time around? By the time they realized he was so proficient in combat last time, he had already proven his worth as a spy, and with the rate that they were  _ losing _ spies, they couldn’t afford to transfer him to the front lines. But now they knew that he was one hell of a duelist and capable of going toe to toe with Dooku for an extended amount of time. If he actually had the  _ right _ body, he could have lasted even longer. But  _ this _ body was still learning what it needed to do, which was aggravating at best. Honestly, what was he thinking, not using shatterpoint in combat? He knew he had a complex about it, but still.

“May we escort you to Windu and Yoda, sir?” Nuts asked, and Tibalt stared at him, infinitely glad he had never been wrangled into having an apprentice if  _ this _ incessant hovering was what was in store for him.

… Oh gods, was he going to be forced to take on a padawan this time around? That was headache inducing.

“Yes, you can,” he settled on, praying to all that was holy that he would  _ not _ get stuck with a padawan. He had  _ enough _ to worry about, thank you kindly.

… And if Windu and Yoda were waiting for him, he had a lot more to worry about.

.

.

.

.

.

The two Jedi masters were waiting for him in a quiet conference room. The three clones that had stubbornly stuck themselves to him opted to stand guard outside while Tibalt prepared himself, guilty as sin and trying to figure out how to lie his way out of this one. Kenobi had likely given his report on Tibalt’s advanced techniques far beyond what his skill level should have been while he was unconscious, and Tibalt was  _ more _ than aware that the Force was disturbed around his body. The shatterpoints when he first ‘awoke’ in his teenage body had dimmed, but Mace had seen them and known that something was  _ wrong. _

Everything about this was  _ wrong. _ His whole body had been  _ recycled. _ And now he had to report to Yoda and Mace before even giving his full report to the council.

With Skywalker and Kenobi.

Skywalker, who had killed him scarcely a day ago.

Skywalker, who had killed him four years in the future.

Skywalker, who Tibalt wasn’t sure should live or die, and the Force was  _ silent. _

He was getting himself worked up and anxious. The vode were all silent, standing on either side of the door, patiently waiting for him to gather himself, and Tibalt took a deep, shaky breath. He didn’t know what he could and couldn’t say. Even telling them the truth could change the course of  _ everything _ and render his information useless. He had to be careful. He had to  _ listen, _ and he had never been all that good at listening. His power was in his eyes, not his ears.

“They’re waiting, sir,” Nuts said expectantly, and Tibalt rubbed a hand over his face, brushing out with the Force to feel their signatures faintly thrum behind the door.

“Sorry. You don’t have to hang around. We don’t need the door guarded,” Tibalt said and the three snapped to attention.

“We have nothing else to do, sir!” Bolts said, possibly too loudly, and Tibalt winced. Attached. He had  _ definitely _ endeared himself to them. Great. If he went back into his same line of work he did before, they were  _ not _ going to like it. He knew very well that the most dangerous space in the galaxy is the distance between a clone and his Jedi.

“Alright,” Tibalt settled on and took a second to breathe in that bright,  _ living _ Force surrounding them.

They weren’t blank. They weren’t  _ wiped, _ like water washing over sand.

He’d find out what happened to them. He had to. That kind of erasure wasn’t the kind of erasure that was a  _ choice. _ He had to save them. Force only knew they’d saved his brethren enough. Force only knew they never really had a choice, not even from the start, which was one of the reasons he never wanted to be  _ assigned _ any clones. He didn’t want the responsibility for sentient beings that had never had a  _ choice, _ that had been born and bred for the purpose of killing and little else, but now the responsibility was his, and he needed to end it. Definitively.

With a muffled whine of pain or exasperation, he wasn’t sure which, but from the way Bolts twitched, it was definitely funny, he opened the door and stepped in. Mace was facing the viewport, arms crossed, back to Tibalt, lost in thought, and Yoda stood beside him, bent over his staff and looking as frail and old as ever. Looking at them, you couldn’t even tell that Yoda damn near just beat a Sith’s ass.

“Masters,” Tibalt said thickly. “You called?”

“Young Tibalt,” Yoda croaked. “Thank you for coming, I do. Watch the stars with us, you will.”

Okay… This was fine for now…

Tibalt swallowed down his tongue and drew up to the viewport, tired, tense, feeling like he was on the edge of a mental breakdown he couldn’t escape from. Really, it was a miracle he was still in one piece and hadn’t just started sobbing.

“Relax, Tibalt, you aren’t in trouble,” Mace finally said, and Tibalt did not relax.

“Your presence in the Force,” Yoda croaked. “Changed in a moment, it did.”

Tibalt didn’t say anything. He still had no idea what happened. He’d been pulled out of the bacta tank, unconscious, and woken up with the temple on fire and blasters firing. He had no idea what events led to the attack, who authorized it, what happened, and he had a limited amount of time to figure it out. Really, it would have been nice if he had been sent with a  _ team _ of time travelers who actually had  _ context. _ Tibalt was the  _ worst _ choice for this. The Force could have chosen someone who was actually  _ conscious _ for whatever had happened. Instead, it picked the Jedi who took a blaster bolt to the gut because he just couldn’t  _ not _ piss off the rival pirate gang and get caught up in a smuggling operation.

“You were supposed to answer that, Tibalt,” Mace said quietly, shaking Tibalt out of his mounting frustration that he was  _ missing _ something.

“I don’t think I can,” he finally said, and that was evidence enough that he knew something was up.

Yoda hummed, long and thoughtful, and Mace’s lips pursed. A silence passed between the three of them as they all processed what was right in their faces: either Tibalt had been possessed and miraculously not been corrupted in the slightest, because he could  _ feel _ them digging around to investigate him, and he was content with letting them, or he had time traveled.

Given the nature of how he fought, a desperate style clearly born out of war, not peace, it was clear which option it was.

“When Nicanas died…” Mace started and then trailed off. Tibalt had  _ not _ had a clamp on his shields in that moment. He knew Mace had felt it. The bone deep weariness of someone reliving his own personal hell one last time was not something that could be mistaken for anything else.

“War, we will have,” Yoda mused. “Tell us everything, you cannot.”

“I can’t,” Tibalt agreed. Mainly because he had  _ no _ idea what the  _ hell _ just happened beyond Skywalker  _ possibly _ fell to the dark side because of his pregnant love. And Tibalt was  _ well _ aware that in four years she  _ would _ be pregnant. Even in the Outer Rim, nothing could keep him from keeping up on all of the Coruscant gossip. Knowing who was doing who and how was sometimes the difference between life and death… Literally. He knew people that  _ bought _ information on how politicians liked it in bed. You never knew when a senator’s vices might come in handy.

“This is the sort of thing that needs a direct answer, Tibalt,” Mace said flatly, and Tibalt internally winced. He was really hoping he wasn’t going to say that.

“Four years in the future, I died,” he finally settled on. “I can’t tell you more than that.”

He can’t even tell them  _ where. _ The Force was  _ painfully _ silent, and he wasn’t enjoying it at all.

“Can you at least give us  _ any _ warnings?” Mace asked flatly, and Tibalt swallowed harshly.

Let Barriss Offee live in the healing halls just as she wanted. Never let Master Krell  _ near _ a position of power. In fact, putting a hit on him might cause everyone less grief. Barriss Tibalt could pity, but what Krell had done…

Unforgivable.

Trust Ahsoka Tano.

Listen to Anakin Skywalker, probably, because even  _ he _ disagreed with how they handled literally everything about him while he was alive. Don’t let him get involved in the slave situation. Don’t fake Obi-Wan Kenobi’s death, because that had destroyed  _ many _ people’s trust in them. Stop helping Mandalore every time they decide to play the damsel in distress again. Stop the bombing of Coruscant. For Force sake,  _ don’t _ let Quinlan Vos fall in love with Asajj Ventress. Even if he  _ hadn’t _ Fallen, that would have been a  _ horribly _ toxic relationship and they were all supposed to look out for each other, anyways. What was more, Tibalt didn’t want to have to learn about another Master’s bedroom preferences all over again, which he had when he was sent to track the rogue Fallen Jedi down.

He had to live with that knowledge anyways. And he was not happy about it. Jedi weren’t supposed to be bitter, but every Jedi had their vices. It was just a matter of balancing them, and Tibalt’s vice was being supremely pissed at how often he had to live with information he could have very much done without, thank you kindly.

For a long, long moment, Tibalt combed through all of the information he knew, all of the suspicions he held close to his chest, all of the questions he had, but he was still coming up blank, because the way he died… He needed time to sit down and  _ think. _ Process. Ask questions about the holes in his death and fill them in.

“I’ll reveal information as it becomes relevant,” he finally settled on. “But for the most part…”

He had never really forgiven Krell, had he? He scarcely even interacted with Krell, but even  _ if _ the clones weren’t disturbingly  _ null _ when they marched on the temple, even if they had just been  _ wiped away, _ Krell’s treatment alone and the fact that it had been  _ allowed _ was just pouring bacteria in an open wound. And lots of Jedi were like that.

They couldn’t give them more excuses to hate Jedi.

They couldn’t be even more of a part of the problem.

“When you decide on your treatment of the clones, bear in mind that it doesn’t matter if they came out of a tube,” he decided on. “They’re just as sentient as everyone else, and our treatment of them will be weaponized at every given opportunity by our enemies.”

In a lot of ways, the Jedi were just as trapped as the clones in this war, but at least Jedi could  _ leave _ the Order. But that was hard. This was their entire support system, their  _ family, _ and most Jedi that left had rich families to fall back on. Others just didn’t bother with it. The adjustment was just too hard. It was easier to just  _ stay. _ And… while he hadn't heard of anyone leaving beyond Ahsoka, who was expelled anyways, he was pretty sure the courts would go after them for desertion. It wasn't entirely clear in the law that drafted them, but it was a possibility.

Jedi got jail for desertion, clones got execution, so the hierarchy was at least clear  _ there. _

“Remember, we will,” Yoda agreed, and Tibalt stared out the viewport at the blue blur of hyperspace folding around them.

He wanted to cry. At this age, he still had a worn loth cat plush in his bed in his chambers, nicknamed Tupper. At some point during the war, Tupper had been lost, and Tibalt had never admitted how much it hurt to misplace that last little bit of innocence he had.

“You need your rest,” Mace finally said, and Tibalt’s eyes refocused on the white and blue spiraling around them.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’ll go get that done.”

Yoda let out a discontented noise, and Tibalt felt that crushing chasm of  _ what to do _ all over again. He was a bit lost, a bit confused, he had no idea what caused Skywalker’s Fall, or why the clones just changed in a split second, or why everything went so  _ wrong, _ or why it hurt so little to die. He didn’t know what to do about having to go through the last echoes of puberty all over again, what to do about the fact that Dooku had nicked his left horn, what to do about this war and how to stop it while keeping everything in a neat order so he could at  _ least _ predict what was coming next. He didn’t know what to do about the fact that his skill in a duel had been revealed, didn’t know what to do about the fact that he was probably going to be put in command of troops this time around, didn’t know what to do once he was out of his comfort zone.

There was nothing that could be done except to just breathe through it, and breathe through it Tibalt did as he abruptly turned on his heel and made for the door, Mace’s eyes burning holes into his back. It was almost disconcerting how easily they accepted that he was a time traveler. What Tibalt wouldn’t give for the Force to speak to him so easily.

The door slid open and the three clones snapped to attention. Tibalt looked over them with glassy eyes, trying to memorize those bright, warm Force signatures, trying to figure out just  _ what happened. _

He hadn’t reached the nursery.

He should have reached the nursery.

But who was he kidding? If it was genocide, the nursery was the first thing they’d target. The babies were probably dead or taken before he got there.

“I need food,” he finally said, though the words hurt to force out. He knew it would all taste like ash. Part of the reason he’d even been sent undercover in the first place was because rations left him malnourished. His natural diet was incredibly demanding.

“We can take you to the mess, sir,” Nuts said, and Tibalt bit back a reply. Of course he wouldn’t know where the mess was.

“Thank you, Nuts,” he gritted out, and the three clones arranged themselves around him to lead him off.

Four years. He had four years, if he didn’t kriff everything up before he got there.

###  He could do this… Right?


	4. Chapter 4

When he had last been knighted, it was a silent, somber affair. He had no master to give a braid to, no Nicanas to wish him well, tell him how proud he was. All he had was Mace cutting the braid off and setting it aside to be burned with Nicanus’s body, as was tradition. The funeral itself was horrendous. Over one hundred dead Jedi, leaving them to little more than a mass burial with all of the temple in attendance.

He’d forgotten Barriss Offee had been at Geonosis. She was so young then, scarcely two years older than Ahsoka Tano. It was no wonder she snapped, though he despised that she did it the way that she did. If he had the option, he would have taken her on as an apprentice, if only to steer her in a path where she didn’t so violently repress emotions rather than cope with them. But Force, their age difference was practically nonexistent. But… Unduli had not been good for her. Maybe in times of peace they might have been perfect together, but this was not a peaceful time.

The only real difference this time around was that he and Skywalker were knighted together. He had avoided him like the plague up until that point, hellbent on interacting with him as little as possible even though he  _ knew _ that wouldn’t fix anything, but he still could feel his saber plunge into his gut and suck the life out of his body.

He hadn’t cried yet. Nicanas had always told him that he should cry.

“Beleren!” Skywalker was calling for him as he walked down the hall, the scent of fire still in his nostrils. Tibalt froze, breath caught in his lungs as he waited for Skywalker to catch up with him, eyes fixed on the ground while he struggled to not react.

“Yes?” He bit out, and Skywalker paused uncertainly next to him.

“... Thank you,” he suddenly said, and Tibalt blinked. “For coming for us, I mean.”

“Right,” Tibalt said tightly, because this Skywalker was  _ very _ much real, and he didn’t know what to do about that.

“You broke a horn,” Skywalker pointed out, and Tibalt’s hand drifted up to where hard grown horns he had been  _ so _ proud of protruded from his head. He hadn’t even felt it in the fight when Dooku nicked off an end.

“Well. They never stop growing,” he finally settled on, even if there had been some surgical modifications in the first place to  _ get _ them growing.

“Why did you come for us, anyways?” Skywalker asked, tall and imposing and all in Tibalt’s personal space, with painfully earnest blue eyes that hurt to look at, and Tibalt pursed his lips. He was  _ trying _ to get out of a Force induced vision that he had since discovered was not  _ actually _ a vision. But he couldn’t very well say that.

“Had a feeling,” Tibalt replied finally as he went to stride on again.

“I’ve never seen you sparring,” Skywalker added as he jogged to catch up with him. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“My master and I used to do a lot of undercover operations,” Tibalt replied, which wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He  _ had _ learned the basics of his fighting style from his padawan days. “You’d be surprised how many bounty hunters get their hands on lost lightsabers so they can claim they killed a Jedi.”

“I’ve done some undercover operations, too, and I haven’t run into that many,” Skywalker said suspiciously, and Tibalt rolled his eyes.

“No offense, Skywalker, but from what I hear, most of your undercover operations don’t stay undercover for very long,” he pointed out and Skywalker made an offended noise.

“You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you?” Skywalker asked, and Tibalt thought about how his ancestors used to eat raw meat long after they discovered fire and how to cook it.

No. That was  _ not _ very Jedi of him.

“It tends to get me into trouble,” Tibalt replied, and Skywalker laughed. Actually laughed. The sound grated down his spine.

“We should spar sometime,” Skywalker said, and Tibalt stiffened. He fought with Skywalker one time and…

This wasn’t him. This  _ wasn’t him. _ Force did he wish he had more context as to what the  _ kriff _ happened. It would be  _ so _ much easier to prevent this if he knew  _ what _ he was preventing. It was clear as day that it had something to do with the senator, attachments were forbidden for a reason, after all, especially with someone as volatile as Skywalker, and Tibalt had always been directly plugged into the gossip network of the temple, even when he was stuck out in the Outer Rim for months on end. He knew for a fact the senator was warming the bed with her pet Jedi. It wasn’t like Jedi were  _ celibate, _ so no one really  _ cared, _ but he hadn’t realized just how deep those feelings went until she was screaming his name like that.

“I don’t think we’ll have much time for sparring,” Tibalt murmured just as both of their comlinks pinged at once.

“Tibalt,” Mace’s voice came through Tibalt’s comm. “I need your eyes at the Senate building, if you don’t mind.”

Ah. Tibalt remembered this. The vote to go to war. Shatterpoint was a rare gift, and Tibalt was one of the few that could see it  _ outside _ of a combat scenario. If he recalled the last time correctly, shatterpoints had cracked across every senator. He’d had a headache for a full week afterwards, and avoided the Senate building like the plague. In fact, he didn’t step foot in the building at any point during the war. There were simply too many decisions being made for him to be able to take it.

Maybe he should have.

“Anakin, can you meet me at the Senate building?” Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice came through the comlink on Skywalker’s arm, and the two freshly minted knights exchanged glances.

“Want to ride with me?” Skywalker asked, and Tibalt had flashbacks to the many stories of Skywalker’s ‘piloting’ abilities.

It would be weirdly suspicious if he told him no, but…

“I’ll drive,” Tibalt decided and strode forward, Skywalker’s lanky self easily matching his hurried movements.

“What, don’t you trust me?” He asked teasingly, and honestly, should he even be taking that tone with Tibalt when he  _ clearly _ had a paramoure? Something about it made bugs skitter up Tibalt’s spine and a stone settle in his gut.

Right. Skywalker was infamous for being a determined flirt with  _ everyone. _ Tibalt was… not going to get used to that. He wasn’t going to get used to that at  _ all. _ Gods, why did he have to take on Dooku with Skywalker? Now he was going to get  _ stuck _ with him. They were about to vote to send them to war, and there was no way Tibalt wasn’t going to get shipped out. He was absolutely going to be a general this time around, in command of a legion, and  _ Force, _ that was a pain to think about.

He’d have to request Domino Squad. And that pilot and gunner. Something told him it was important that he had them at his side.

“I definitely don’t trust you,” he finally settled on and toyed with the end of his braid. It felt strange to have all of his hair pulled back again, woven tightly against his skull.

“I’m a good pilot,” Skywalker assured him, and Tibalt rolled his eyes even as he swallowed back the lump in his throat.

“I heard about your speeder chase through Coruscant,” he shot back and Skywalker actually laughed at him.

“Well, we won’t be chasing any assassins this time, will we?” He asked, and Tibalt’s eye twitched.

“You have the luck of a Hutt smuggler,” he said dryly. “I’m not taking chances. You can drive yourself if you want to be insistent.”

“Well, I haven’t heard anything about  _ your _ driving. At least you’ve heard of mine,” Skywalker pointed out, and Tibalt’s eye twitched again.

“If you haven’t heard of my driving, that’s a good thing.”

“... Actually I haven’t heard of you at all,” Skywalker admitted, and Tibalt pursed his lips.

“That’s because we travel in different circles. You’re with all the diplomacy Jedi, if you can call it that, and I’m with all of the Shadows and therefore spies,” Tibalt replied, even though the  _ real _ fact of the matter was that Skywalker’s lineage could be traced back to Yoda within three generations and he was practically Jedi royalty. Tibalt was little more than target practice for clankers compared to Skywalker. But he wasn’t going to say that.

“I don’t see why there shouldn’t be any crossover,” Skywalker responded as he folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. Tibalt had never felt natural when he did that. He didn’t even wear a full length robe, preferring a knee length one.

“There’s plenty of reason,” Tibalt said dryly. “You’re around all of the holorecorders.”

“... Well. You’re not wrong,” Skywalker admitted.

It was unbearably awkward to talk to him. Tibalt was well aware that this could practically qualify as an alternate universe, but it all  _ happened, _ and he just desperately wanted to be as far away from Skywalker as possible. It wasn’t the Jedi way to hold onto things, but Tibalt was pretty sure he was justified in this case. Or, at least understandable.

Skywalker had never even really noticed him last time around. Tibalt had barely even registered to him. They had passed in the halls once or twice, never even spoken to each other. The Jedi Temple was a big place, and the Order wasn’t a small organization. Tibalt himself was back at the temple even less than Skywalker during the war, and Skywalker and he had been sent on missions a lot even while they were padawans leading up to the war. But then Tibalt had just  _ had _ to insert himself into Skywalker’s fight with Dooku, which was stupid, honestly. How had he even thought this was a Force vision? He knew he could be a bit of an idiot sometimes, but…

This could  _ still _ be a Force vision, but given the pace everything was moving at, he wasn’t sure.

Tibalt barely even registered that he managed to keep up a running commentary with Skywalker until they reached the speeder. All of that undercover work had really come in handy, because he did  _ not _ like being around him, despite the fact that Skywalker was apparently attaching himself to him.

“So how do you think the Senate is going to vote?” Skywalker suddenly asked, and Tibalt pursed his lips as he got behind the controls.

He knew how they were going to vote. He also knew the Jedi were going to be gang pressed into service, like a bunch of monks knew how to run a war. And this time around he wasn’t going to be able to avoid the worst of it.

“I think we’re going to be very, very karked,” he finally decided on saying. “No matter how they vote, the order is going to burn.”

Skywalker didn’t say anything in response to that.

Tibalt almost wished he had.

.

.

.

.

.

The Jedi Council had their own pod in the Senate building, but they rarely used it. They didn’t have a vote, but they were meant to be impartial observers, and quite a lot of the Senate votes impacted them, anyways. There was a long running history of Jedi showing up in specific seats to show their support for whichever measure was being voted on, and they had the power to sway votes just by existing.

They didn’t do that very often nowadays.

They probably  _ should _ start doing that. Maybe just enough to help.

Skywalker and Kenobi were on one side of the pod, and Mace was waiting for Tibalt in the doorway. Kenobi and Skywalker were the face of the Geonosian battle, so of course they had to be there, alongside Yoda, but Mace and Tibalt were getting more looks than the others.

They probably weren’t sure why such a young looking Devaronian hybrid who didn’t have much to do with anything was there. Tibalt still remembered the visible amounts of shock at the sight of him the last time. He’d looked like a wreck, barely managed to sit through the whole thing as the world shattered around him. Shatterpoint was just so weird and questionable. He almost hated that he had to put up with it.

“See anything?” Mace murmured next to him as Tibalt’s eyes flicked over the assembly. Senator Aks Moe was filibustering to delay the vote, as always, debating the pros and cons of whether or not this could be considered  _ war, _ or simply the Jedi sticking their noses where they didn’t belong once again, Padme Amidala looked like she was inches away from pulling out a blaster, and  _ Force, _ Tibalt would marry her himself if she did, Bail Organa was trying to stop Aks Moe, but was getting cut down by the Vice Chancellor, and there was the Chancellor in the center of it all, looking serene and politely concerned.

Tibalt had never liked the man.

“It’s a bantha’s nest in here,” Tibalt muttered and then frowned as the fractures spread across the assembly. “Brace yourself.”

“We have an army dropped directly into our laps and none of you think we should  _ question _ the morality of using an army of clones who had no  _ choice _ in the matter?” Bail Organa defended, which was  _ definitely _ new, and why did he look so…

Tibalt squinted at him as the chamber exploded. Senators and representatives were yelling and screaming, it looked like the Wookies were about to jump out of their pod to throw down with the Corellians, and  _ that _ wouldn’t end well for anyone, considering Corellians all carried vibroblades. Tibalt would know; he left a string of broken hearts on Corellia and had the scars to back it up.

Organa didn’t  _ look _ right. His shatterpoints were in flux, drifting and turning around him, and the Force was thrumming around him in a discordant hum. How was no one seeing this?

“You see that?” He asked Mace, and Mace rubbed his eyes with a grimace.

“I can’t see much of anything. A few fractures here and there.”

Force, what Tibalt wouldn’t give for that level of sensitivity. He had never gotten good control over shatterpoint. Either it was all or nothing.

“Does Senator Organa feel weird to you?” He asked and Mace narrowed his eyes on the senator, who was desperately pleading with anyone who would listen. The list of people who  _ would _ was not long at all.

“No. Are you sure you’re not just tired?”

So Tibalt was the only one that could see it.

“I must just be tired,” he finally said after an awkward pause while Skywalker looked back at them with concern.

“... Beleren sees shatterpoints?” Skywalker asked.

“He’s uniquely gifted in it, yes,” Mace confirmed.

“Or cursed, depending on how you want to see it,” Tibalt quipped. “When you see a whole lot of everything it gets a little difficult to figure out what should be ignored.”

“Doesn’t that just mean they’re all important and can all be manipulated if you’re crafty enough?” Kenobi asked, and Mace let out a hiss.

“The Senate is about to vote on going to war for the first time in hundreds, if not thousands of years. I don’t think now is the time for a lesson in shatterpoint,” he snapped as Tibalt rubbed at his eyes.

“Chaotic, this is,” Yoda hummed, and Tibalt blinked back tears of exertion.

“Politics, you mean,” he corrected before he could stop himself as the Chancellor called the session to order. Kenobi covertly coughed into his hand as Tibalt zeroed back in on Organa. Everything about him seemed…  _ wrong. _ Not wrong in the sense that he was  _ dark, _ or being  _ manipulated, _ but it was like being in an empty liminal space. He didn’t quite  _ fit, _ and Tibalt could not understand why he wasn’t sticking out even  _ more. _ He knew people couldn’t  _ normally _ see shatterpoint, but most people had some degree of Force sensitivity and could tell when something was  _ off. _

Everyone knew what it was like to feel like someone was watching you. It was just that not many people knew that it came from what few midichlorians they had.

Someone should have noticed. The fact that Mace had said he saw nothing wrong was… concerning.

Was this something for Tibalt only to see, or had going back in time and being brutally murdered in front of the temple nursery done a number on his senses? Why  _ Organa? _ Tibalt had always liked him somewhat, at least for a politician, but they had never  _ met _ or had any meaningful interactions.

Well. There was that one time he ended up raiding his ship while on an undercover mission, but Organa had only met Tibs the pirate in that scenario. And it had been a quick one and done sort of thing. Organa never found out that it was a Jedi that sabotaged the kidnapping and ransom attempt, the civilians got their humanitarian aid, and Tibalt got a strongly worded message from the temple on unorthodox methods involving blowing up a pirate ship, harassing a senator, ripping out an airlock (quite literally), and depressurizing the bridge of a diplomatic vessel.

… Hadn’t Tibalt boldly told him he was on the lookout for a sugar daddy?

… Thank the  _ Force _ there wasn’t going to be a repeat of that. The things he used to do to maintain his cover… 

They were all arguing again, and the Chancellor called them to order once more before demanding the vote begin.

“We’re going to war. I’m stepping out,” Tibalt decided on, ducking out of the oppressive chamber and into the open air of the hallway.

They would vote to use the army and send the republic to war, and then four more votes would happen over the course of the day to decide on the what and how, which would end with Tibalt walking out freshly enscripted in service to the Republic. He gave it half a cycle before he ended up with a command and the rank of general, and then he would be in an entirely unfamiliar environment and hopefully not leading the Order and the Republic to its doom.

He needed to figure out what was wrong with the clones. That was the first step. Then Skywalker could be dealt with, and then he could hunt down the  _ real _ Sith lord that the council had known about since the invasion of Naboo and done nothing about. Really, only Tibalt knew about them because his work demanded the knowledge.

This would be easy… Right?

Yeah. It would be easy.

Force, he knew he was twenty-one in an eighteen year old’s body, but why  _ he _ had been chosen to save the galaxy was beyond him. There wasn’t much he could do, much he could offer, so  _ why _ was he here? Perhaps he was wrong and this was some complicated Force vision he couldn’t quite understand. But wouldn’t it be better to treat it as if it was real? Tibalt was never really one for visions or seeing into the future. He had slight glimpses in combat, but his primary power resided in the possibility of the present. So he  _ really _ could not be considered an expert on premonitions or visions, considering the fact that never once had he had one.

It should have been someone older. Someone wiser. Someone like Mace, or Yoda, or even Kenobi, even if he was comparatively young. Though if he survived with a padawan like Skywalker, Tibalt was sure he was practically a bastion of knowledge and wisdom. It should have been  _ anyone _ but Tibalt. He was too young, too inexperienced. A good liar, but he had precious little else going for him beyond his talent in shatterpoint.

He needed to get it together. The hall felt like it was swallowing him up, and he knew he would have to go back into that blasted chamber that was giving him a headache.

… His hands were shaking.

Maybe a few more minutes.

.

.

.

.

.

“Senator Organa. Senator Amidala. Senator Farr,” Mace said smoothly as Tibalt hovered just behind him. After a long, long day of voting and arguing, Tibalt had been proven right. The Jedi were offered up as sacrifices to the sarlacc pit, thrown into the fire, and now Tibalt was going to be settled with a general ranking within a few days. He had been in and out of the pod all day, his ravenous appetite proving difficult to ignore once things started to get heated. The humans, of course, managed just fine without food for literal hours on end, and their passive detachment had left Tibalt in a terrible mood. Even now he was hungry and irritable. Curse his Devaronian appetite.

“Master Windu,” Amidala said gravely and inclined her head. “Thank you for being here today. I know it must have been hard.”

“It is our duty, Senator,” Mace said firmly.

“Forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with a member of your party,” Organa cut in as he squinted at Tibalt hard. Was he experiencing deja vu? Was that a thing with time traveling through the will of the Force?

“Oh, Bail, this is Jedi Knight Tibalt Beleren,” Amidala cut in. “It is Knight now, yes? Ani told me you were knighted together.”

Bail mouthed ‘Ani’, which was intensely relatable, before his eyes narrowed as he stared at Tibalt, mouthing his name.

“I was,” Tibalt said and dipped his head. “It’s good to see you under less explosive circumstances, Senator.”

Amidala’s lips quirked as she registered the fact that he didn’t say ‘better’, and Organa continued mouthing Tibalt’s name, which was  _ beyond _ weird.

“Tibs?” He whispered, so low Tibalt almost didn’t catch it, and Tibalt’s eyes went wide in immediate concern, almost bordering on shock.

… Oh, Force, he was entirely prepared to take the sugar daddy jibe to a married man to the  _ grave. _

Organa’s brown eyes met purple, and Tibalt realized he had a big, big problem on his hands.

“Oh, Tibalt Beleren,” Organa said after a long pause, his eyes flicking across Tibalt’s face. “I believe I heard of you. You fought Dooku as well, did you not?”

“I did,” Tibalt confirmed weakly.

“You must have a niche combat style to hold him off for so long,” Organa said, very openly probing. “You’re very young.”

“I like to think I have an old soul,” Tibalt joked, internally wincing as it fell  _ painfully _ flat, if the look Mace gave him was anything to go off of. “Skywalker was there, too, of course.”

“Yes, where is he?” Organa said and glanced around.

“They already headed back to the temple,” Mace said. “I was about to head back myself.”

“Do you need Knight Beleren for it?” Organa asked politely. “I’d love to hear his assessment on Dooku, if you don’t mind.”

Tibalt didn’t know if he wanted to go  _ with _ Organa or scream at Mace to save him.

“Tibalt is a fully fledged Knight now and can come and go as he chooses,” Mace said with some degree of amusement. “Though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind building on diplomatic relations. He doesn’t have much experience dealing with the Senate.”

“I wonder why,” Organa muttered under his breath before he gestured to a helpless Tibalt bound by the laws of polite society. “Beleren?”

“I think Ono and I will head back to my apartment,” Amidala cut in. “We have things to discuss.”

“And I will be on my way to the temple,” Mace said with an incline of his head. “Remember, you’re needed early tomorrow, Tibalt.”

Tibalt internally cringed at the slightly demanding tone in his voice. Undoubtedly a debrief with Yoda and Mace, like  _ that _ was going to go over well.

“I remember,” he said solemnly, trying to remain as serious and calm as he could because Jedi weren’t  _ supposed _ to have personalities.

“Knight Beleren?” Organa prompted, and Tibalt steeled himself for what was undoubtedly going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

He wasn’t going to like this at  _ all. _

Even so, he had a job to do, or at least  _ thought _ he had a job to do. And getting a senator in his pocket might make that job a  _ lot _ easier, whether Organa knew who he was or not. And so, Tibalt sucked it up and followed Organa down the halls, uncomfortable and feeling as if he was sticking out like a sore thumb. He was, of course, but he hated  _ feeling _ like it. The new leather tabard and black overtunic in the style of traditional Devaronian clothing felt wrong against his skin, his saber feeling too exposed after spending so long hiding it. It had been ages since he carried the Jedi weapon proudly in public rather than his blaster. How he had become such a good duelist was honestly beyond him. He barely even got to use the thing, opting to spend his time in the temple training relentlessly to keep up with his peers.

“May I call you Tibalt?” Organa suddenly asked as the two of them made their way through the halls.

“... It is my name,” Tibalt replied carefully, scarcely recalling that  _ this _ was the problem he needed to be dealing with right now.

“Tibalt Beleren,” Organa said, like he was trying it out on his tongue. “It’s rather surprising that a knight as young as you would be here today.”

“I have a specific skill set Master Windu required,” Tibalt replied, and cursed that he would have to give his report on the whole disaster later. Though… He  _ could _ use a senator’s insight to decipher what shatterpoint meant what. That was how he generally  _ did _ use shatterpoint. So many considered it a combat art, solely for breaking windows and doors and striking at the perfect moment. Not many people considered just how intensely useful it could be in painting a broader picture for the eyes of a trained spy. Shatterpoint paired with specific insider information could be a  _ devastating _ duo. It was beyond him how no one had thought of it before.

Actually, he knew why no one had thought of it before. Jedi, as a rule, tried to think of politics as little as possible. Which was fair. Tibalt  _ wished _ he didn’t have to think about politics.

“What skill set would that be?” Organa asked, and Tibalt considered the question.

“I could hardly tell you that with so many ears,” he finally replied.

“Hm. Then perhaps you might consider joining me for dinner at my apartment,” Organa said. “I think we’d have a lot to discuss.”

Tibalt’s livers sank down to his knees at the declaration.

  
Yeah. Yeah, Organa had recognized him, and clearly noticed when Tibalt noticed. Damn politicians. Tibalt had thought his sabacc face was  _ stellar. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ discord!!](https://discord.gg/wF2Fvef)
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

Tibalt could not remember a time when he actually enjoyed having dinner with someone. Well, he could, but never to  _ this _ degree, and never without at least one scoundrel in the room. Organa was smooth, polished, poised, and Tibalt felt like he was in the presence of an uncle. The man seemed wise beyond his years, and sad beyond measure. Tibalt could see halfway through the meal that he was grieving, though if it was for the present or the future, Tibalt couldn’t say.

They didn’t discuss the war. It hung over them like a cloud, a vibroblade pressed to their throats. But they talked about other things. Planets Tibalt had been to in the Outer Rim. Missions he could discuss. Negotiations that had broken down under Bail’s watch and ended in a firefight. Palace shenanigans back on Alderaan that got him into trouble with his wife. It was like Organa was somehow an old friend, though they had only met once before, and Tibalt couldn’t help but feel like that was intentional.

It was not dissimilar to two souls passing in a hall and nodding at one another when no one else could see how they suffered.

It wasn’t until after dessert, when they were both leaning on the banister of the balcony with fresh cups of caff in hand, that Bail finally broached the topic.

“Most of the stories you told haven’t happened yet,” he said quietly, and Tibalt stared up at the polluted sky.

“And you don’t have a daughter,” he said. He’d done his research.

“No, I don’t,” Bail confirmed. “And with any luck, she will never be her.”

That had something to do with it all. Tibalt was sure, but he could wait. They were both taking their time. Tibalt’s Jedi intuition with Bail’s politician wit, both balanced against each other in a never ending circle as they performed the most comprehensive of background checks on one another.

They didn’t have much time. Not really. But they could take their time with this. Neither of them were stupid or uncouth enough to simply point at the other and demand when they traveled through time. They both knew better.

“It’s nice that I don’t have arthritis yet, at least,” Bail finally said, and Tibalt took a sip of hot caff, let it swish around his mouth.

“I didn’t have time for my livers to start acting wonky,” he said. “I was twenty-one. You?”

Bail winced, and Tibalt didn’t comment. His age was proof enough of how he died.

“Sixty-four,” he said. “Leia was born the day the Republic fell.”

Something icy cold gripped Tibalt’s heart at the confirmation of something he had refused to consider up until now. That the attack on the temple, the  _ wrongness _ of the clones, the senseless slaughter of the young and helpless… Something like that couldn’t have happened without a bigger picture he was blind to. A bigger picture  _ everyone _ was blind to.

“The Separatists were losing,” Tibalt murmured, and Bail almost choked on the ugly laugh that rose up and out of his throat.

“We were all losing, and we were too proud and blind to know it,” he said, and Tibalt turned to him, tried to find the source of that deep, deep pain in his chest, that loss that he was mourning so desperately.

“What happened that led to your death?” He asked, because something told him that was important.

Bail looked off to the side, up at the sky to try and see a few glimmers of stars past all the smog. It was a vain effort, and they both knew it.

“From what I can tell, my entire planet was blown to pieces,” he said quietly. “That’s what the intelligence was reporting until the bright light crashed across the sky.”

… A planet. Blown to pieces.

_ An entire planet. _

Tibalt thought he might faint. The Force had sent one single senator and one single Jedi to stop this? How? How could he  _ stop this? _

“I won’t deny that the Republic was corrupt to the core and needed to change,” Bail added, his voice just on the edge of impassioned and embittered. “But there was still democracy. There was still a  _ choice. _ There wasn’t violence for the sake of violence. Death to make a point, at least on that scale. It was the small concessions we made that led us to where we fell, the ‘look away’ attitude so many senators have even now. Padmé… Padmé put it most succinctly. ‘So this is how liberty dies. A thunderous applause.’ And she died with it, left me with her daughter, the daughter Anakin was so sure was going to die with her, the daughter he was desperate to save with Padmé, even though he was ultimately the cause of her death.”

“What about the clones?” Tibalt asked hoarsely, and Bail’s hand tightened on his mug.

“We have to do everything in our power to save them,” he said, firmly, unwavering. “Control chips in their heads, just waiting to be activated and force them to turn on their Jedi and blast them down. They never had a choice. Where were you?”

“... The temple,” Tibalt murmured, like it was a prayer. “I was… I tried to get to the nursery before… Before he ran me through.”

He didn’t have to say who ‘he’ was. Bail knew just as well as Tibalt did, and it was clear from how sad his eyes were that he regretted asking.

“I was in a bacta tank before it all happened,” Tibalt continued. “I have no idea what happened or why he snapped or why the clones were helping him. In the war, I  _ technically _ had the rank of General, but I never actually used it. I was all… undercover work. Kept a finger on the pulse of the Outer Rim. Bartered and traded and fought for information on the Separatists, tried to give every clone and Jedi leading them a fighting chance to win. I was pretty good at it, but there were a lot of… A lot of missions where I was asked to duck out of what I was doing and go in with no backup and no help to steal something or infiltrate some base for information or get something done that they couldn’t trust a clone to do. I got into a lot of firefights, battled several Sith, even if they never saw my face. I know a lot of the  _ outside _ perspective of the war, but I was never in the thick of it.”

“You were left alone,” Bail said quietly with a frown, and Tibalt shrugged, took a sip of caff.

“Better than what waits for me  _ now. _ We may have gotten drafted, didn’t have a choice, but the clones were  _ made, _ and that’s arguably worse. I didn’t… want to lead them to their deaths.”

And now he didn’t have a choice. The choices were being systematically stripped from everyone. Leave the Jedi Order now, and he’s a deserter. They’d be more kind to him than a clone deserter, but he’d still be a deserter. Jedi during the war fashioned themselves like this was all a  _ choice, _ a sacred  _ duty, _ but they knew better. It was just easier to live with, framing it all like the Republic hadn’t betrayed them from the very start. Betrayed their ideals, betrayed everything their order struggled for for so long, betrayed everything they stood for in the pursuit of conquest and bringing the Separatists in line.

Tibalt had never wanted to be responsible for the subjugation of the clones. Never wanted a part of it, even if most of them were happy with their lot in life, to hear them tell it. It just felt wrong to him. Devaronians had a complicated relationship with slavery, both a history of being subjugated and being the oppressors. It was a history fraught with strife and bloodshed, and he had always distanced himself from it. But now it looked like he didn’t have a choice. Not if he wanted to save any of the clones from… from a  _ chip _ in their brains telling them what to do and who to kill. They were little more than droids with a pulse at that point, and he felt queasy even killing droids with learning AI processors.

Bail was quiet next to him, sipping on his caff as he tried to work through everything he knew and what he could share with Tibalt. Tibalt just felt even more lost, but it was better to be lost with someone else than lost alone.

“Chancellor Palpatine is the Sith lord you’ve been searching for,” he finally said, calmly, patiently, and Tibalt froze in place, eyes wide as he tried to figure out just how karked they were.

Very. They were  _ very _ karked. He could not do shit with that information unless he had stone cold evidence, and he did not have that evidence. At all.  _ Kriff, _ why him? Why him? Even the  _ accusation _ at this point was treason. He’d probably be executed on the spot if the Sith had  _ that _ much power.

“I’m never going to get my proper oidhche beannachaidh,” Tibalt murmured as something uncomfortable twisted in his gut, something mournful, something sad. It wasn’t very Jedi-like of him to focus on that in the face of that statement, but he  _ really _ didn’t want to think about it until he was alone and could have a meltdown. “When I’m twenty-five I’ll be twenty-two.”

It was a stupid thing to think about, stupid thing to feel for, stupid thing to mourn. It was little more than a glorified Life Day, not quite a celebration of his coming of age. He had come of Devaronian age when he was fifteen, come of Jedi age when he was apprenticed. The oidhche beannachaidh was a send off, a celebration that he had made it so far, where his loved ones wrote their hopes and dreams for him on pieces of flimsi and gifted them to him. To a Devaronian, those were the greatest gifts you could give. Wishes. There was power in it.

It was one thing to die before he got it. It was another to miss it because he was… not in the right body. Not in the right time. And he hadn’t even been displaced  _ nearly _ as badly as Bail. It was a full twenty something  _ years _ he had been sent back in, and he had to relive all of that all over again. He had a  _ daughter. _ Who might not even be  _ born _ if they did their jobs right. Force, could Bail even cooperate if that was the case? His  _ daughter _ hadn’t been born yet. He had an entire  _ child. _

Tibalt wasn’t sure he could trust him, but that was the Jedi in him talking. Attachments are dangerous, you can’t put the fate of one before others, this and that. He had never really been a good Jedi. Yes, he was  _ great _ at letting go and processing, but that was all. He could empathize with the need to put one person above the universe when that one person  _ was _ your universe. It was harder to see the bigger picture, hard to work past the grief of empathy, harder to accept that to do good, one must let go.

Jedi had always suffered for it.

“... You’ll be able to tell people eventually,” Bail finally said after a long, awkward pause, and Tibalt thought about wishes and dreams written on pieces of flimsi. “And if anything, if you’re helping me save the galaxy, the least I can do is give you a wish for a better future.”

The unsaid slipped between the lines like a wisp of smoke. 

_ “You were too young.” _

_ “I’m so sorry.” _

_ “I failed you.” _

Because, in a way, every last politician  _ had _ failed the Jedi when they sent them to war. And Bail bore that on his shoulders, no matter how much he fought against it and demanded  _ better. _

“What about your daughter?” Tibalt asked hoarsely.

“Alderaanians believe souls are always meant to come to be,” Bail said simply. “Even if she will never be my Leia, I’m not dooming her to never existing. She’ll be here, one day. She just won’t be mine, or maybe she will. But she’ll be here.”

It was really such a beautiful belief. The idea that no matter what, the person you loved would always be there. Happy. Content. Living their lives.

He couldn’t imagine destroying a planet that held that simple faith so near and dear to their chests.

“Well, if it’s the Chancellor, it may take us four years to even work all of this out. What are we going to do?”

Bail drained the last of his caff and pushed himself off the balcony.

“Why do you think you were chosen?” He asked bluntly, and Tibalt paused. “It’s obvious why I’m here, of course. I was always one of the loudest voices decrying war, and I have decades of experience in politics. I know my way around the Senate, I know the secrets of the politics going on right now, I know all of the scandals that are going to happen and what to do about them. So why are you here?”

Tibalt had to think about that. He was twenty-one years old. He was a child, really, and why he had been trusted to do these undercover operations was  _ beyond _ him. Then again, Skywalker was a single year older than him and he’d been given a  _ legion. _ An entire  _ legion _ to lead to ruin. The 501st had gunned down the entire temple mercilessly and…

Tibalt stopped and took a deep, steadying breath.

“A few reasons,” he settled on. “I know almost everything about the military ins and outs of the time. I was a spy. I had to know. And I have a specific affinity for a very rare art found in the Force called shatterpoint. I can see the exact point when a person can make a choice and have the longest reaching outcomes, essentially. It’s like the Force has faultlines, there’s a lot more that goes into it than that. It was mostly used in combat and for literally destroying doors and walls, but over the course of the war I mastered a technique to use it in espionage by connecting the shatterpoints to figure out how to make them interact with each other and tip the balance by pressuring one person to make a choice that will affect how everyone  _ else _ chooses. That’s how I could tell you were a time traveler. All of the shatterpoints around you were off.”

“... You needed the Force to tell you I was a time traveler?” Bail asked in amusement, and Tibalt blinked.

“Yes? You look exactly the same otherwise. I mean, you tipped me off when you recognized me.”

“Ah. You tipped me off the second Padmé told me you fought Dooku,” he said with a huff of laughter, and Tibalt blinked. Hard.

“What?”

“Nothing changed until that exact moment,” Bail said dryly. “Despite my best efforts.”

That… Actually made a lot of sense. A  _ lot _ of sense.

“Now. Let’s go inside and sit down and start figuring out how these shatterpoints work and how you’re going to get the chips removed from the clones,” Bail said. “We have about a month before the first battle, and four years until Order 66, so there’s no time to waste.”

“We’re going to need a slicer to find out just what exactly is on the chips and a surgeon to teach the medics how to remove the chips. It needs to be done quietly, let the clones control it, and not let it get back to the Jedi,” Tibalt decided. “The Jedi have a duty to report to the Senate, and until we can trace the chips back to Palpatine, we can’t take any risks.”

“I’ll leave the management of the military side of things in your hands, and I’ll handle things from a political angle. I can think of a handful of bills that I could have tried harder to stop to keep Palpatine from edging into power, and kept it subtle,” Bail said as the two of them went back into the living room.

“... You need to stay under the radar. Have him attacked on multiple fronts,” Tibalt suddenly said. “That means you need someone with more Separatist leanings on your side rather than just your inner circle. It’ll blindside him.”

“Anyone with Separatist leanings already left, Tibalt,” Bail said dryly. “The only ones I could  _ get _ are the more corrupt officials, and that would be a herculean effort to make sure they’re trustworthy.”

“You don’t have to make sure they’re trustworthy. You just have to trust that they’ll follow their own interests,” Tibalt said flatly. “You’re a politician. Use your wording. The more allies we can take out at the knees, the better.”

“I have a reputation for my honesty,” Bail pointed out as the two of them collapsed onto the couch, and Tibalt smiled dryly.

“You’re still a politician, Bail. You don’t have a reputation for  _ honesty. _ You have a reputation for being wily enough to not get  _ caught. _ ”

“You can take a Jedi out of the temple but you can’t take the temple out of the Jedi,” Bail mused with a half smile, and Tibalt made an offended noise. “It’s true, Tibalt. None of you like politicians.”

“You have to be a sadist or a masochist to get into politics, and neither are things I trust,” Tibalt said flatly. “I speak from experience. I  _ was _ a spy.”

Bail cringed at that, and Tibalt couldn’t blame him. That was never something you wanted to hear about your colleagues.

“You know you’ll be sent into the field this time, right?” He asked, and Tibalt took a deep breath in, held it, and released it.

“Yeah. I know.” He wasn’t getting out of it this time. There was no way. He’d do better at removing the chips with the vod’e’s trust in him, anyways. A Jedi spy with no legion at his command could do far less damage. He  _ needed _ them to trust him.

He needed that squad. They would trust him, at least.

“Do you know a chop shop doctor and a slicer you can trust?” Organa asked, and Tibalt hesitated. He knew the slicer. And…

He knew a healer.

A healer the Order had failed.

Maybe he could save her.

“I know some people.”

It was a risk, an incredibly deadly gambit, but he had to  _ trust _ her, because no one had trusted her, and that was why she Fell. People barely listened to knights, much less frustrated and lost Padawans who had never asked for any of this. If he could offer her a swift end to all of this… If he could offer her somewhere to  _ direct _ that hurt and betrayal…

Maybe he could save her.

It was the people that the war forgot that were the reason you should keep fighting. And Barriss Offee had been forgotten, from the very start. Hopefully, if he could offer her a way to  _ heal _ her way out of this war, maybe she would come out a bit better for it.

Of course, this could all blow up in his face horribly, but Tibalt was a gambler, and the odds were generally in his favor. Force, he’d even managed to cheat death, so that had to say  _ something _ for his luck.

… Could Barriss even do brain surgery? He knew healers started training at a  _ very _ young age, and Barriss was extremely advanced for her age to begin with, but…

Well. If she couldn’t do it, she’d know someone who could, and learn how to do it just in case. At the very least, she could learn from them and then teach the medics how to do it, and Tibalt in the meantime could request an advanced medical officer for his legion that could offer ‘training’ to other medics so they would slowly and steadily learn in a hands on environment. With two different teachers and an expanding branch of medics that could take out the chips, he could possibly have them all removed in a year if the recovery period didn’t take too long. That would be one less thing to concern himself with. Of course, the generals would notice by then, but he could buy as much time as possible until he had a solid plan of attack before briefing his fellow Jedi on what he wanted to do and how he was going to do it.

… Right. He needed to keep Krell from becoming a general, too, or at the  _ very _ least run as much interference as physically possible to keep him from murdering troops in the pursuit of victory. Umbara was a nightmare he was hellbent on making sure was  _ never _ repeated.

“I can see the smoke coming out of your ears, Tibalt,” Bail said suddenly, and Tibalt visibly recoiled, blinking at Bail with wide, wide eyes. The senator leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and met Tibalt’s gaze seriously. “You have me. Let’s plan.”

Right. Tibalt had someone in his court, and he had precious little of that.

“I want Barriss Offee to perform the surgeries,” he said suddenly, and Bail blinked slowly.

“... The temple bomber? That got Ahsoka expelled from the Jedi Order?” He clarified, and Tibalt nodded.

“Think about it. After Tano was expelled, Skywalker got more callused, more angry, more hurt. I don’t know what levels he rises to in your time, but I know firsthand what kind of power he possesses. Granted, I was drugged within an inch of my life when I fought him, but he wiped out the  _ entire _ Temple. But… if we get our claws in Barriss  _ now, _ offer her a way to heal her way out of this war… she might have a fighting chance. Her anger… As much as I hate it, it was justified. She took an oath to heal the sick, save the suffering. That was all she wanted in life, and she was forced to become a killer. For a Jedi, that’s a… deep violation.”

Bail studied him with sad brown eyes, and Tibalt could not believe he was arguing the case of a murderer. Even if she wasn’t one yet. She had attacked their  _ home. _ That wasn’t something easily forgiven but…

It was easier to forgive her than Krell.

“I see why Jedi always advocate for mercy,” Bail finally said. “It can be a powerful thing.”

“I’m very much an advocate of preventative measures to stop crime before it has a chance to fester. This might be the chance she needs,” Tibalt said firmly. “The slicer I know is good. Trustworthy. She was one of the few people that knew I was a Jedi when I was undercover, and she never betrayed me. If we know just  _ what _ is on those chips, there are more measures we can take to defend ourselves.”

“And how will we get the chips out of the clones that never leave Kamino?” Bail asked, and Tibalt hesitated.

“Take out Palpatine before he has a chance to say the command,” he decided. “There’s no way we’re getting around the Kaminoans for that one.”

“... Well. Don’t make such bold statements just yet,” Bail said thoughtfully. “I’ve had about twenty years to learn how to work and talk my way around Burtoni. I can get through her in four years.”

Tibalt blinked. Right. He had an in with the Senate this time around. That would make things so much more interesting, if not easier. But  _ Burtoni? _

“May the Force be with you,” he said, because he really couldn’t help himself, and Bail actually laughed at him.

“You know, I’m almost disappointed you won’t be a pirate this time around,” he said, almost wistfully. “That hijacking was one of my best memories. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a fun time being kidnapped before.”

Tibalt stared down at the coffee table, lips pursed and awkward in the aftermath of that statement.

“I asked you to be my sugar daddy.”

“Breha thought it was hilarious,” Bail said, almost sadly. “She always delighted in my more adventurous stories.”

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

“It was more entertaining when the airlock somehow got ripped into space. I’ve never seen things go so wrong so forcefully in so many increasingly chaotic ways.”

“That day was actually my best work,” Tibalt admitted. “I went to some  _ extreme _ lengths to maintain cover and still get you and your relief supplies on your way.”

“Was it you that blew up the other ship?”

“That was  _ not _ easy,” Tibalt said with a twitch of his lips. “Especially from a distance.”

“I appreciate your attention to detail,” Bail said earnestly. “Even if I feel  _ terrible _ for the clones that are going to get assigned to you.”

Tibalt could not resist a wince at that. Yeah. Those poor vod’e.

“Well, let’s get started on what we can do now,” Tibalt decided as he pulled his datapad out of his tabard. “I’m going to run some senators and representatives by you, and you tell me everything you know about them, and then I’ll tell you what the Force was registering through the shatterpoints, and hopefully we can get the ball rolling on some of this. And when we're done with that, we're going to compare notes on the war to make sure we're as accurate as possible.”

Thank stars it had been a politician and Jedi sent back. They were both  _ trained _ to memorize boring things like dates.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Bail said. “Let me call for more caff.”

Force only knew they’d need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tibalt had REALLY been hoping he forgot that. Rip.
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

Red male Devaronian-Human hybrid. 18 standard years. 1.62 meters, so he was on the short side. Identifying markings included the gold tattoos ringing around his protruding horns, and silky black hair, typically pulled back in a braid, along with a decidedly more feminine face than the average Devaronian male, though whether that was the bit of Human mixed in his heritage or the fact that he was trans was up in the air. Health conditions included frequent migraines due to something restricted in his file and the hormonal implant in his stomach.

He’d only been a Knight for a few weeks. He was  _ eighteen years old. _ Commander Grim, otherwise known as CC-3737, had read the file on his new general a million and one times now, trying to figure out just  _ why _ the 508th had been stuck with a literal child who should still be attached to his recently deceased master. This whole thing stank of a rush job. He shouldn’t be commanding troops. If Grim were a seasoned veteran, with a legion of seasoned veterans, he’d be more confident in keeping this new general alive, but he wasn’t. He’d gone through the battle on Geonosis, yes. But only a handful of his men had  _ seen _ that battle. The rest were still at Kamino.

They’d been entrusted with a freshly minted knight, only given the rank because he was too close to his “trials” to get a new master to see him through in all of the chaos, and Grim could feel the cold fear gripping his heart as he studied the file for the millionth time.

The man in the picture stared back at Grim, looking cheerful and ruffled, if not a little guilty, like he had been caught unawares in the middle of breaking some rule and been scolded. His purple eyes were warm and full of life, and the scar that cut through his right eyebrow added a little character, a little  _ life _ to him that Grim was terrified of ruining. What he wouldn’t give to be Wolffe right now, assigned to a seasoned Jedi Master and member of the council, and leave the young Jedi to the more  _ competent _ vod that still hated Grim’s guts.

He’d heard good things about his general, of course. Domino Squad, Boomer, and Aces had all testified that he had automatically remembered their names without prompting and specifically stated that a name was different than a designation. The two clones that had been pulled out of the wreck of the gunship were in his legion, too. Gambit and Ticking had narrowly been saved from a decommissioning, only needing a quick bacta bath to heal up before they’d all been transferred under General Beleren’s unit and his protection. That wouldn’t have happened had the Jedi not told them to triage and prioritize saving a life than needlessly dashing after a Jedi who already had his backup in the form of two  _ more _ Jedi. They would have been a liability in the same room as a Force user like Dooku, anyways.

But he was still worried.  _ Beyond _ worried. General Beleren was  _ young, _ and he’d be here on the ship within the hour. They were stationed in the Mid Rim with General Unduli and her padawan, Commander Barriss Offee, on their own star destroyer. Right now, the Republic was bolstering its defenses around major hyperspace lanes and key strategic points, and he was not looking forward to hanging out in dead space for the foreseeable future. Clones were designed for combat, after all, even if he understood the time honored tradition of ‘hurry up and wait’.

He just hoped this new general wouldn’t die on them. He could only do so much.

His datapad pinged with a message from Rex, and he relaxed a little into his chair as he flicked to answer it.

**CT-7567:** Stock up on red paint yet?

What a kriffing…

**CC-3737:** No. I think he might take offense to that.

**CT-7567:** You having a heart attack, too?

Right. They’d stuck Rex without a commander thanks to a paperwork snafu on top of leaving him with the  _ other _ freshly minted teenage Knight from Geonosis. The one that just lost an entire  _ arm _ to Dooku. At least  _ his _ general came out with his limbs intact. Well, there was the horn getting nicked, but he’d done fairly well.

**CC-3737:** If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.

**CT-7576:** Aw, lighten up, Grim. You’re going to act like it’s not terrifying? They’re practically nine.

**CC-3737:** They’re Jedi and have been training their whole lives, just like us. I’m not going to doubt my general before I’ve even met him.

Even if he was very much doubting his general before he even met him. But, could you blame him? Biologically, Grim was older than the damn general, and he was only ten.

**CT-7576:** We went with the blue paint.

**CT-7576:** In case you were wondering. It’s been called. Cody’s boys are doing orange. Left the red for you.

**CT-7576:** Thought it was only fair.

This little pain in the…

**CC-3737:** There’s hundreds of legions, I think red is going to be used by more than us.

He was pretty sure red had been forcibly assigned to the Coruscant Guard, not that Fox was talking to him nowadays. He would probably take offense to them sharing a color, regardless of what Grim’s general looked like.

**CT-7576:** Yeah, but we’re likely to get stuck together more than we’re not. Little bird told me Skywalker and Beleren work well together, and the council wants to keep an eye on them both. So we gotta stand apart.

Great. The Jedi council wanted to keep the two teenage generals working together and in charge of assaults. Grim saw in no way how this could go horribly awry. Hopefully they would at least keep General Kenobi nearby at all times. He heard Kenobi was good at wrangling Skywalker, and General Windu had a bit of a bond with his general, if the Domino Squad was to be believed.

… Was his general going to be chaotic? Or calm under pressure? Grim was getting worked up over this. The Domino Squad had said he was a little odd, shook up after the battle, but he’d managed to keep a clear head  _ while _ everything was going down… Which was a good sign. Grim had managed decently well during the combat, took down a fair number of clankers, followed the Zabrak Jedi he ended up behind into combat fairly well while all of the drama going on with Dooku was happening in the background.

… Oh, no.

His general was a Devaronian.

Was Grim going to have to constantly watch him for signs that he was going to be ignoring the dangers of explosions and their percussive blasts? He’d heard things about Devaronians from his trainers, and the general consensus was that they all were born fireproof and steadily lost precious brain cells after the fact.

Grim generally kept an intensely stiff upper lip, but he had to admit it was getting a little hard to do so the more he thought about the headache he was about to get. Teenage general with fireproof skin and two livers, entirely unafraid of charging after a former padawan of Yoda and Master of the Jedi, and, if the reports were to be true, master duelist even compared to the rest of the High Council. Was he going to have to worry about him constantly eating poisonous plants, too? Going into dangerous gaseous terrain without a mask? He was Human. He had no idea how to handle a Devaronian.

Grim’s comm beeped, and he tapped it on.

“Commander Grim,” the bridge lieutenant’s voice crackled through. “The general is early. Just came out of hyperspace.”

Ah. Kriff.

“I’ll meet him at the hanger,” Grimm said as he bolted to his feet and tossed down his datapad, yanking his helmet over his closely shaven head as he shouldered his way out of his office and made his way down to the hanger bay. It would take time to dock the hyperspace ring, so hopefully he’d have time to catch the general as he got out of the fighter. He had  _ no _ idea what his capabilities were as a pilot, but he could have  _ sworn _ he heard when he left for hyperspace, and there was  _ no _ way he got here that fast with the conventional routes. Did he know some hyperspace lane Grimm was unaware of? He knew that as a padawan, according to his file, he had done a lot of work in the Outer Rim, though the nature of it was classified, but it couldn’t have been pretty. Maybe he picked up some smuggling routes?

It didn't matter. He was here, he was early, Grim wasn’t ready for him, and this was more than likely going to become a trend. Grim tried to not look like he was rushing as he hurried into the lift, pressing the button to take him to the hanger bay, and patted his hips to make sure his blasters were still there and accounted for.

Still there.

Good.

The lift descended into the hanger bay and with a hiss, the doors opened, letting him step out into the wide expanse. Crew members were all around, catching up on their tasks and doing their best not to gawk at the small purple starfighter pulling into the bay and settling down in the general’s designated spot. A purple R2 unit rocketed out of the ship, letting out a series of angry shrills and whistles, and the much-anticipated general popped the cockpit, climbing out and finally letting Grim get a good in-person look at him.

“I already told you I was  _ sorry, _ C7, what more do you want out of me?” The general protested as he hopped down. Grim patiently stood to the side, waiting for whatever argument was brewing to take its course. C7, apparently, let out a derisive squeal, its head spinning in circles, and the general threw up his hands as the vod’e in the hanger tried their hardest not to stare. “Fine! I’ll give you my routes and let  _ you _ program it next time!”

Ah. Navigation astromech did not get to navigate, and now it was mad. That meant Beleren apparently had hyperspace lanes memorized as a rule, which was… different.

The thoroughly offended little astromech stuck out its third leg and practically  _ slammed _ it onto the floor before wheeling away with another blast of derisive and angry retorts Grim did not understand, leaving the exasperated Jedi standing there, good first introduction thoroughly ruined.

“General Beleren!” Grim finally spoke up as he strode towards him. “CC-3737. I’m your Commander, sir!”

“Nice to meet you,” the general said as Grim came within arms length of him, reaching out a hand for him. Grim reached out, a little taken off guard, and the general clasped his forearm in greeting.

He really needed to read up on Devaronian customs.

“What’s your name?” The general asked as he released him, and Grim abruptly realized that 1.62 meters looked  _ very _ different in person than it did on paper. He was… short. Extremely so. The horns added  _ some _ height, but if he were to look straight forward, his eyes would land on Grim’s collarbone. Ah. So he was going to be hard to keep track of, too.

“Grim, sir,” he replied, thanking the Force he had been prepared for this by the Domino Squad, because only vod’e and the Mandalorian trainers up until this point had requested his name before.

“Grim. How’d you end up with a name like that?” The general asked, and Grim blinked behind his helmet. There was a slight cock to the general’s lips, like he knew  _ exactly _ what Grim was feeling right now, a bit out of sorts, a bit confused, and he tilted his head delicately, waiting for a reply.

“I prepare for the worst, sir,” he replied, because that was the best way to put it. Some might call it ‘being a pessimist’ and ‘worrying himself sick’, but it was better to be prepared for disappointment than have it blindside you.

“We’re going to have to fix that,” the general said brightly as he stripped off his short robe that only came to his knees, which Grim was pretty sure was  _ not _ standard regs, and tossed it back into the cockpit, betraying the minimal body armor right over his chest and shoulders. He was going to need some vambraces and greaves added to that. In all of the training holos and simulations, Jedi used their sabers as their torso armor, and their movements demanded a complete lack of restriction there, but that left their legs and arms vulnerable to hits.

“If you say so, sir,” Grim said stiffly, and the general stretched lazily, arms over his head as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Grim’s eyes were drawn to the saber clipped to his belt, and he wondered what it would be like to see it in action.

It wouldn’t be long before he did, he supposed.

“Got my briefing ready?” The general asked, and Grim snapped to attention.

“Yessir!”

“Relax, Grim,” the general said with a brief grin, betraying rows of sharp teeth. Anybody got bit with those and there would be scarring. “First, I want to see the training schedule so I can wreck it.”

“... Sorry, sir?” Wreck the training schedule?  _ Grim’s _ training schedule?

“Of course!” General Beleren said with a toothy grin that made Grim feel like he was being backed into a corner.

“You… would like to… rearrange my training schedule?” Grim carefully clarified, and General Beleren  _ loudly _ cracked his neck.

“I sure would, Commander Grim!” He confirmed once again. “I went over your training videos with holograms of Jedi based on the known fighting styles. None of that is going to work with my style, so we have two weeks if we’re lucky to get a few squads comfortable with the way I work before we get thrown into the middle of no man’s zone! So let’s get this done  _ fast. _ ”

“Sir, that’s how we’ve trained for our entire lives,” Grim protested before he could stop himself, and something in the general’s countenance darkened.

“I’m well aware, Commander, which is why I’m fixing that  _ now, _ before you start losing men,” he said and turned on his heel. “Let’s get moving, Commander! I want this briefing done in an hour and Domino, Bravo, and Echo Squads from Alpha Infantry Company meeting me in the training rooms! And an audience! We’re on a schedule!”

Grim knew how to roll with punches. Really, he did. But he was a bit at a loss here, and so he did the sensible thing.

He followed his Jedi.

.

.

.

.

.

“Alright, men, let’s get into the regular formation. Echo Squad, I want Tin and Upper with Bravo, Juno and Hardtop with Domino. Chop, chop!” The general clapped loudly as the vode in the room who were told to come watch if they wanted shifted uncomfortably. “Echo and co, you’re the Seppies, Domino, you’re you, which means I’m also with you.”

Grim leaned back against the wall as the vode dispersed to get into place, spread out across the obstacle training room with the training blasters in their hands. Frowning under his helmet, he crossed his arms as the general looked over his shoulder and raised a scarred brow at the commander. Not sure what to do, he just gave him a measured nod, to be greeted with a downright  _ predatory _ smile as the general leaned on the obstacle in front of him, tapping the toe of his boot against the ground thoughtfully.

“Alright, first we’re going to do a standard formation, and then we’re going to do a formation the way  _ I _ like it. Try and spot the difference, it shouldn’t be hard,” he said after a second of deliberation. “It’s not even that big of a change, honestly, I’m sure all of you will adjust just fine. Commander Grim, if you don’t mind keeping time? Time stops when all Separatist forces have been shot or I’m the last GAR member standing.”

“Yessir,” he said and pulled out his datapad to open up the timer function. The general slipped behind his obstacle and worked out his neck as everyone hunkered down behind their cover in anticipation, blasters ready to fire.

“Begin!” The general ordered, and in an instant, blaster fire erupted across the room. For a second, the general didn’t even activate his lightsaber, and then out of  _ nowhere, _ brilliant blue energy erupted, batting aside bolts with criminal ease as Bravo let loose, straining to pin down the scrappy Domino Squad which was already  _ entirely _ too attached to the general.

At first, it seemed fine. The general deflected bolts easily enough, a lifetime of training making itself extremely apparent as he advanced on Bravo, which both freaked them out and encouraged them to up the ante. But, then, just like the holo recordings, it changed. That’s how it always did, and the general was following it to the letter. He was all over the place, covering where he could, drawing fire, leaving key points of their defense open, and Grim started to see the holes. His team had  _ no _ idea where he was planning to go next, and while the general seemed to have things under control, it rapidly became apparent that he was leaving them wide open to attack. As he advanced, so did they, but they didn’t have the Jedi speed to keep up with him. Yacht and Bolts got hit, followed by Juno, until the general abruptly blasted behind the ‘enemy lines’ and deactivated his saber.

“You let someone with the Force and a glowing stick that close, you’re all dead, anyways,” he said bluntly, like it was a fact of nature, and Grim stopped the timer.

“Four minutes, thirty-two seconds,” he called, knowing full well that was easy mode.

“How many got hit?” The general asked.

“Republic side, three, Seppie side, four, plus the others you just took out, sir!” Grim reported, and the general grinned at him.

“Thanks, Grim. Now, let’s try it my way. Everyone, back into formation, please!” He called as the members got up and rearranged themselves at their starting blocks. “Commander Grim, if you don’t mind having this recorded for training purposes? I want the men to be able to review before it’s their turn to train.”

“Yessir!” Grim replied and accessed the security cameras in the training room as the general spun the saber hilt around in his hand, a nervous tick, likely.

“Alright, boys, move forward when I call your names,” the general ordered, and Grim’s brows furrowed under his bucket. What?

“Begin!” The general called, and the troops started up again with practiced precision. For a long ten seconds, the general stood in the middle, deflecting bolts every which way, completely stationary and holding his ground, more like a defensive tactic than aggressive. What was he doing?

“Yacht, Bolt, up!” The general called and moved, smooth and even, like smoke across the grass, spinning so he was directly in front of them and allowing them to advance. For a few seconds, he kept right there, just off to the side of them, deflecting bolts, easy and breathing, and then he slowly and steadily moved back to the center. “Nuts, Juno, go!”

Sliding through with even, easy footwork, he moved so he could deflect bolts back at Bravo while Nuts and Juno went forward, taking out two men at once, but it was clear he was holding himself back from his full potential. This was about the vod’e and showing them how to do something, not about showing off. Grim could appreciate that.

“Hardtop, Rumple!” With another shift, the Jedi was covering them, deflecting bolts and firing them back at Bravo squad. He moved strangely, like he was walking across water, his body fluid and even, turning on a dime, and Grim found himself wondering if  _ all _ Jedi moved like that. It was almost like he wasn’t even  _ looking _ at the bolts that were flying at him, but rather to the side and around, like he was searching for something else.

There was always a twitch in his face, eyes hardening when his gaze landed on an empty space and he called forward another pair. He’d shift over, covering whoever was moving, and with a flick of his blue blade, a blaster bolt would be deflected back or another shot from his squad would land. He was purposefully slowing himself down so his squad could keep up, and before he even realized it, the entirety of Bravo squad plus their two extra were taken out, without him even having to take them out like last time.

And every member of the general’s group was left standing.

“Five minutes, nine seconds,” Grim called out before he realized what he was doing, and the general deactivated his blade with a hiss.

“Great!” In an instant, the trance like gaze in his serious face was gone, replaced by that bright, sharp toothed smile that promised pain you would undoubtedly like. “How many men have I been left with?”

“All six, sir!” Nuts called gleefully as he waved a cheeky hand at the downed Bravo Squad.

“Kriff,” Tin complained as he worked out his sore shoulder where the training bolt had hit him. “You sure took your time, General.”

“I did!” The general agreed cheerfully before Grim had a chance to reprimand the trooper, not in the least bit offended. “Most of the Jedi are going to adopt the style you saw in your training videos simply because that was what you were  _ trained _ to work with. I’m not going to be doing that. When you work with me, this is one of the methods I will be employing.”

“Sorry, General, but what were you looking at?” Bolts asked, and ah, he caught it, too. The general winked at him conspiratorially.

“Weird Jedi stuff you can’t see. It’s a bit complicated to understand, but it’s a bit like instinct made visual for me. It’s called shatterpoint. I can see the exact placement of where the Force ‘cracks’ into possibilities, and I can harness that to change the way a single moment can change what the future will look like. It could be as simple as avoiding a blaster grazing a helmet and messing up your comm, or as severe as a vod dying. There’s some drawbacks. It’s essentially skillful gambling. I have to hit it at the exact right moment in the exact right position, but most of the time I get it perfect. That’s why I’m slightly adjusting your training. The traditional training doesn’t work with my specific skill set, and I can lessen casualties in exchange for time.”

A visual Force cheat code? That must be where the migraines stemmed from. Honestly, all of it sounded beyond Grim, and he really didn’t have to worry about the why or how so long as he could monitor the effects on his Jedi, but even so… hm. Was it something he could turn on and off, or did he just deal with it all the time? That would be a pain to handle, from a logistical standpoint.

In any case, this Jedi seemed… Bright, almost too bright, and cheerful. Personable. But there was something about him that screamed of experience and promised that he would be steady. He’d immediately come in and karked up Grim’s training schedule, but he was willing to accept that. There was just… something about him. He’d have to talk to other commanders to see how they were adjusting to their Jedi. Was everyone getting their training readjusted? He could see now the flaws in the other training program. It had never occurred to them that the Jedi could protect and prioritize them  _ while _ still getting to the goal, and it felt a little… uncomfortable. Like it wasn’t right. He knew to the galaxy they would be considered expendable, but he hadn’t fully considered the implications of that.

His whole life, he had been told he would have  _ his Jedi _ to protect and support. That was how it was  _ always _ supposed to be. The clones were made to protect the Jedi and fight for the Republic. But in an instant this tiny Devaronian-Human hybrid had just walked up into his house and flipped their entire training regimen to put as much stock and responsibility on  _ himself _ to protect  _ them, _ and Grim wasn’t sure how to react to that.

His first fear was that if anyone was transferred  _ out _ of his legion to another one they might not be able to adjust. Or that other Jedi would not be so… so  _ different _ and it would upset the balance of things. But he had just met this Jedi, and he couldn’t question him. It was his job to take his orders, make sure his legion was running correctly, keep his Jedi safe, and keep his head down. He really only could question the general’s authority when his health was on the line, and honestly the lack of him jumping all over the place with flagrant disregard for environmental hazards probably meant that he was  _ less _ likely to get hurt with this equally fluid but less chaotic fighting style. The training programs had always given Grim a heart attack, anyways. This seemed  _ much _ safer.

“Alright, I’ve taken up enough of everyone’s time,” General Beleren declared. “Council needs my report. Commander Grim, if you wouldn’t mind showing me around the ship?”

“Of course, General!” Grim said, like he hadn’t barely managed to memorize the ship a week before. The Jedi, however, didn’t seem to notice, or just didn’t care about his spike of fluster at the direct attention on him, instead strolling out into the hallway with Grim hot on his heels. He could hear the fervent whispering breaking out before the door even shut, and he wouldn’t begrudge them that. He had time to get discipline instilled on this ship, and the general had demanded his attention.

“They thought it was funny, naming my ship The Anticipation,” the general said dryly as Grim started to lead him down the hall.

“Sorry, sir?” Grim asked, not sure where this was going, and the general snorted in amusement.

“The Anticipation. They’re making fun of me,” he explained. Grim hadn’t given much thought to the name, personally, though it did seem a little strange. He heard the 212th was on a ship called The Negotiator, so he supposed he could be stuck with worse names. Whoever named it that had some kind of kriffed humor, that was for sure.

“Well, I hope you’ll learn to forgive them, sir,” Grim finally said as the general started to idly whistle.

“It’s not the Jedi way to not forgive,” he replied, rather cryptically, and Grim tried to figure out just  _ what _ was going on with this Jedi, because he had not been what Grim was expecting at  _ all. _

Grim’s datapad pinged with a message, and he checked the notification as they strolled down the hallway.

“General Unduli and Commander Offee have arrived,” he reported, and something in the general’s countenance dropped. Grim wasn’t well versed in non-Human body language, but he was willing to bet the sudden declaration had made the general sad for some strange reason.

“I’ll have to meet them later,” the Jedi said. “Forgive me, Commander, but it would seem I don’t have time for a tour. I had the blueprints memorized, anyways, but I’ll be needing to make a holocall to someone.”

“Of course, sir,” Grim said immediately, a little thrown by just how quickly his Jedi’s mood seemed to shift, but the general was already striding forward powerfully.

“I’ll be in my quarters for a quick call, and then I believe my first official shift starts in six hours, yes?” He asked over his shoulder, and Grim snapped to attention at the direct question.

“Yessir!”

“Excellent. I look forward to our shift, Commander!” The general called and slipped into the lift, out of sight and out of mind.

… His general was definitely going to be a weird one.

With a sigh, Grim realized his own shift was already over, and he should take the time to answer messages and check on things. The Jedi were all starting to slowly arrive at their posts, which meant for a lot of chatter on secured lines between officers, and he  _ really _ needed to compare notes on how to conduct himself, because his own general seemed hellbent on keeping him off kilter and unbalanced.

  
Gree was not going to  _ believe _ General Beleren had managed to arrive an hour early by what sounded like smuggling routes. Grim just hoped his Jedis were less unnerving than his, because who knew how long they were going to be stuck out here before actual battle began? He couldn’t take any more surprises.


	7. Chapter 7

“It’s truly tragic your master had such an emergency that she couldn’t join us,” Tibalt said smoothly from his seated position on the floor, eyes shut, back perfectly straight, in the traditional meditation pose. He wasn’t really one for traditional meditations, but he knew Barriss decently well from his past life, having been patched back together by her on a few occasions. She was his age, which made the whole dynamic of her still being a padawan while he was a knight weird, but he  _ had _ been taken as a padawan much earlier than her, so there was that. At least they hadn’t been creche mates. He’s not sure he would have survived.

“My master will be fine,” Barriss replied as she slipped easily into a meditation pose. “And I am capable of not clinging to her skirts.”

“You’re feeling saucy today,” Tibalt said dryly, still not opening his eyes to look at her.

“I’ve heard of you,” Barriss said and he listened to the sound of her smoothing out and spreading her skirts so they laid just so. “It would be remiss of me to not be on my guard.”

“Don’t trust me?” He asked as he finally opened his eyes, and Barriss stared directly at him in utter, poignant silence. “You’re right not to.”

Tibalt’s eyes slid shut again, and Barriss didn’t move. His sensitive ears could barely catch the sound of her shallow breaths.

“You went to some lengths to get me alone,” she finally said, accusatory, and Tibalt’s lips twitched.

“And you’re going to want to get some meditation done before I explain why,” he countered, not even bothering to deny it, because it was always better to break bad news  _ after _ meditation. And then follow up with more meditation, but it was a pity Barriss preferred the ‘proper meditation’. Tibalt had always been more fond of running through his katas.

He could sit still for thirty minutes. And Barriss didn’t seem to be complaining, perfectly content to slip into meditation with another Jedi, even if she didn’t know him that well. Or at all. But Barriss was always someone that intrinsically  _ trusted _ other Jedi. It was so strange to see her now, before everything got bad.

Quietly, Tibalt reached out with his presence to gently touch hers, and she stirred in front of him, suspicion rising to the surface quickly followed by calm as she let it go and figured he was just doing a handshake. She reached out to touch him, too, not enough to dig deep and find pain, grief, pain, grief, the scars on his soul he was still letting go, but enough to find a quiet sense of resolve and exhaustion.

He could see that she was frustrated. Already, she could see what was wrong, and he didn’t blame her for the bubbling anger. He was pretty mad himself, and it was somehow worse seeing it the second time around.

Letting go of all emotion was impossible. Everyone knew that. Emotions were a natural part of life, present in varying degrees and versions in almost all sentient life forms. The Jedi way was to try their hardest, but also acknowledge that some things were impossible to let go, and instead do their best to take control and not let it consume them. Emotions are information, not facts, and should be taken as such. The information he knew was that it  _ hurt _ to lose everyone. He knew that it  _ hurt _ to come back and all of those relationships he made, the friendships he made, the people he  _ knew, _ they were all gone, and he wasn’t going to be getting them back. He’d have to start anew. All of the pirates he’d made friends with, the smugglers, the aces and bounty hunters, the dregs of the Outer Rim… He wasn’t going to know half of them, and it hurt, but at least this time there was even  _ more _ reason to let them go than religious dogma. After all, at first it was about being balanced with the Force, and his own fate. Now, it’s ‘don’t let the galaxy progress to where they can actually blow up entire planets to make a point’.

If they could keep the idea of that out of the world, if they could keep the very  _ thought _ away from everyone… Well. He’d consider that a win.

But first, he had to start with a padawan who would become a knight who lost her way. Then he could actually deal with Sith lords and control chips and slave armies and not dying in a war all over again.

And Skywalker.

He also had to deal with Skywalker, but the clones came first. Skywalker couldn’t kill  _ all _ of them, at least. Not on his own. Tibalt  _ needed _ to cut him off at the knees before he even got the chance to Fall.

Breathe in. Hold. Release. The two of them sank into meditation, circling carefully around each other, a quiet bonding moment. He could still feel the suspicion on her, the mild polite confusion that she knew she didn’t have to voice for him to know. He’d tell her in due time, once they were both in that haze of after meditation when things were clear and it took legitimate effort to experience a strong emotion. Tibalt  _ could _ be kind, after all, and Barriss had always felt things both silently and deeply. He would do his best to spare her.

Thirty minutes passed as he let one feeling after another rise to the surface, only for him to acknowledge it and release it. It was still taking time to drain the well of pain and grief, and he wasn’t sure it was ever going to be  _ empty, _ but it would at least be  _ manageable. _ Like it was right now.

“You’re hurting,” Barriss said quietly, after they had been sitting for some time on the floor, focused on just breathing together.

“I am,” he confirmed.

“It’s for many more than just Geonosis,” Barriss said, and Tibalt let out a tumultuous breath.

“It is.”

“You chose me to talk to,” she continued, and he opened his eyes to look at the furrow in her brow.

“I did,” he agreed, and she blinked her eyes open to look at him with a significantly clearer and calmer gaze.

“Why?”

“Several reasons, but the most pertinent one is that I need someone who can feasibly and carefully remove an object lodged in a Human brain,” he said flatly, and Barriss blinked, rather slowly and owlishly, the only indication beyond the ripple in the room that she was shocked.

“I’m sorry?” She prompted, and Tibalt leaned forward on his knees.

“Let me tell you a story,” he said, and Barriss’s building pressure slowly and steadily died down. Tibalt waited for a moment, and then he began.

He started with the fact that he had died four years in the future, continued with the explanation as to how and why, without naming Skywalker directly, and then he continued on, explaining how he had met Bail in  _ this _ life (and she would  _ never _ hear about the last one if he had anything to say about it), and how Bail filled in the gaps regarding the clones and their chips. He told her everything (almost) that Bail told him, about the Chancellor and the war, what the final scheme was, that he corrupted a young and hopeful Knight and he became his feared watchdog of the Empire, that they had to stop it because eventually they would create a weapon capable of blowing up planets, which is how Bail died, on Alderaan of all the places.

Barriss listened quietly, her face vacant as she stared at her long fingered hands in her lap, trying and failing to process what was being told to her, and Tibalt wondered how it must have felt to be knighted and know you should be proud but all you could feel was anger.

He supposed it wasn’t unlike the grief that clung to him nowadays.

“Why me?” She finally asked, quiet, hushed. “I am a padawan, I’m not even a knight…”

Tibalt studied her, thinking about his answer, because he could understand her confusion. He was telling her all of this, and she knew it had to be true, because why  _ else _ would he have been knighted so soon after Nicanus’s death? Skywalker was one thing, renowned for his prowess, one of the most powerful users and fastest learners the temple had ever seen, but Tibalt was nothing before this. Quiet. In the background. Nothing special, not terribly remarkable at all beyond being apprenticed so early. Most were apprenticed at twelve or so, depending on aging rates. He was taken on at ten years old, when Devaronians first started experiencing puberty, primarily because he needed his ‘own space’ away from the creche and targeted direction. Devaronian puberty was a hard and intensely aggressive time, so it had probably been the right choice.

Before, knighting him had been a spur of the moment decision, and simply because of the logistical nightmare it would have been to reassign him for a few months at most before his knighting, not even enough time to properly form a student and teacher bond with his new master before he had to sever it to make a new one. Now, though… Well, in Barriss’s eyes, it had to make sense.

“I chose you because… In my time, you made a decision that had devastating consequences,” he explained honestly. He would never call it a mistake. It was a  _ choice. _ “I wanted to give you another option. A way to heal to end at least a part of a war, even if no one else will see the bigger picture.”

“... I see,” she said quietly, and he let out a soft sigh.

“You don’t have to.”

“They need help. I don’t care,” she said firmly, and hope stirred in his chest, because he had told a mere padawan the full truth before he even told Mace Windu, and somehow, it seemed like the perfect choice. “Conspiracy or not, they are people in need of help, and I took my healer’s oaths. I’ll retrieve the chip. Get me a clone to scan and a few medics to teach, and we’ll get this done.”

“This is probably a lot to take in,” he said carefully, and Barriss shook her head no.

“No. It makes sense,” she replied and climbed to her feet. “I assume I cannot tell my master just yet?”

“We’re keeping it quiet,” Tibalt replied as he joined her. “You technically don’t have to report anything to the Senate or Council. I mean, I do, but I’m ignoring that. Your master, though, has a lot of restrictions. Right now, I want this between us and the clones and Organa. Get your CMO, I’ll get mine, we’ll get another few medics to teach this to, and let the clones carry the whisper campaign. After they’ve been taught how to manage it, we should be hands off.”

Barriss was silent for a moment, contemplative, looking marginally upset by the whole ordeal. Tibalt reached out to place a hand on her shoulder.

“He toppled democracy and the Republic as we know it in four years, Barriss. We’ve stood for thousands. The knowledge of who he is needs to be self contained. I’m not even going to tell the clones for their own safety.”

“So, only three right now,” Barriss said slowly, and Tibalt nodded.

“Only three. At a later date we can start including people, but I  _ need _ people that will  _ work _ with us and follow the rules of engagement. At the very minimum, we need to wait until all active duty clones are de-chipped before we start sharing this knowledge, if only for ours and their safety. We have a blaster to our heads right now and we don’t even know it.”

“What will we do about the clones on Kamino?” Barriss asked, and Tibalt exhaled, low and slow.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “That’s a diplomatic minefield Bail is trying to navigate. Part of the problem is we’re not sure how  _ much _ the Kaminoans know of how the chips operate, or what they’ll be used for. They could think they’re a contingency buffer in the case of a Jedi falling to the Dark Side and going berserk.”

“Falling doesn’t include becoming a berserker,” Barriss said quietly, and Tibalt thought about a lightsaber in his gut as his hands uselessly scrabbled at broad shoulders.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “It doesn’t. But most people don’t know that.”

“How will I cover this to my master?” Barriss asked bluntly, and Tibalt winced. Right. She hadn’t become a good liar yet.

“Tell her Master Windu entrusted a job to me and I asked you to participate for your healing capabilities, but the details are privy to him only. He’ll know how to respond,” he said, because Mace  _ wouldn’t _ know how to respond, but he would know to cover for Tibalt. If Tibalt needed a healer, so be it. He’d come up with something, and that would be Tibalt’s indirect way of cluing him in. Mace enjoyed cat and mouse games like that. “He’ll make sure she knows it’s  _ only _ in a healer capacity. But try to be as casual as you can.”

It was a little  _ rude _ to ask a padawan to handle something and not tell their master. Well, it was beyond rude, and ethically questionable at best, depending on the gaps in age and experience, but Barriss was a senior padawan, unbearably close to her Trials. There was a little leeway in those instances, and in some cases, it was encouraged for them to grow out from under their master’s wing and not rely on their guidance. If it was  _ just _ healing, Master Unduli shouldn’t have a problem with it, and it  _ was _ only healing. She might even approve, because she likely knew Barriss was unsettled with the whole ordeal and feeling violated. Having an opportunity to help clones might be beneficial to her.

“... Knight Beleren?” Barriss suddenly asked, rather hesitantly, and Tibalt raised a brow, because she normally didn’t sound so shy.

“Yes?”

“How  _ did _ you get my master distracted so I could meet with you on my own?”

“I have a lot of friends,” Tibalt said dryly, because he wasn’t about to admit that he begged Mace to distract Luminara for at least an hour. “We should get you back to your ship.”

“Thank you, for entrusting this to me,” Barriss said seriously, and stars, she  _ really _ shouldn’t be so gullible. Nonetheless, the earnestness earned her a crooked smile.

“I just hope you can handle some minor brain surgery.”

“It’s just removing a foreign object from a standard Human male,” Barriss said, and Tibalt tried hard not to laugh at the wave of quiet and mild offense that nudged purposefully along his shields. “I’ve been training to heal since I was apprenticed.”

“Well, then it should be no problem.” Though why Jedi started training actual children to handle surgery, he had no idea. Then again, he’d been trained to pickpocket as one of his very first tasks as a padawan, so maybe Jedi just had a bad habit of blurring the lines of what was and wasn’t child appropriate.

The two of them exited the observation deck, and Tibalt took just a moment to send a prayer up out to the Force to ask if he was doing the right thing.

It was silent.

But that didn’t always mean something bad.

That just meant that he had to try a little harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Barriss should be held responsible for what she did, but I also have a lot more sympathy for her than Anakin or Krell, which is why I decided to give her the chance to go down another path while having active participation in the events that will change her life for the better. This is a shorter chapter, so I'm going to be posting two today!


	8. Chapter 8

**CC-3737:** Heard your general arrived late.

**CC-1004:** Heard your general broke multiple hyperspace regulations and immediately tried to fistfight an astromech.

**CC-3737:** He also completely trashed my training schedule and gave my men an existential crisis.

**CC-3737:** Currently reaching out to see if that’s just a Jedi thing.

**CC-1004:** He touched… the training schedule?

Grim _almost_ snorted as he read that message. He probably should be more offended. The training schedule was sacred. You didn’t touch a commander’s training schedule unless a ship was getting blown up. It just wasn’t _done,_ but far be it from him to interfere with a general’s prerogative. If the Jedi wanted to make sure all of the vod'e knew how to stay alive when fighting with a Jedi, so be it.

**CC-3737:** So this is just a General Beleren thing.

**CC-1004:** General Unduli didn’t even ask about the schedules beyond her own.

Okay, now _that_ was unfair.

**CC-3737:** He had me prepare an entire briefing on the schedule, supplies, requisitions, training levels, damage reports, and maintenance problems before he even arrived.

**CC-1004:** The entire schedule?

**CC-3737:** The entire schedule. And then he pulled out three squads to demonstrate his fighting style and get some training holo for the legion before he just took off and asked your Commander to come over here.

**CC-1004:** General Unduli just met the most pertinent command crew and then had to take a call from the council.

**CC-1004:** So your Jedi essentially got on his ship and immediately started picking a fight with everyone.

**CC-3737:** Training.

**CC-3737:** He started training.

**CC-1004:** Well you have fun with your adrenaline junky Devaronian that picks fights with astromechs and I will be living in bliss with my stable Mirialans who would definitely never touch my training schedules.

When he saw Gree next, he was knocking him on his shebs.

**CC-3737:** I actually didn’t mind.

**CC-1004:** Then you must have been in a bad batch.

**CC-3737:** We were in the same batch!!

**CC-1004:** I don’t remember that.

Gree had a karked sense of humor. Sometimes Grim still had to do a double take to make sure he was still joking.

**CC-3737:** Funny.

There was a beep at his office door and he belatedly realized he was supposed to be doing paperwork right now. Oh, well. With a sigh, he pressed the button to allow admittance.

“It’s open!” He called, and the door slid open to reveal his Jedi leaning there casually in the doorway, arms crossed, thick black braid swept over his shoulder, robe dangling around his knees.

Ah. That’s what it was about him. Grim wasn’t trying to make assumptions about his species, of course not, but the Jedi had an air about him that practically sang that he was nothing but trouble. His mannerisms and cocky, happy-go-lucky aura said that he’d be more at comfort on a smuggling ship than in the Jedi Temple. Granted, Grim had never _seen_ the Jedi Temple, but he’d heard about it from the brothers who _had_ gotten to see it by way of the Healing Halls after Geonosis.

“Grim,” General Beleren said casually, and Grim straightened up as the purple eyes raked over him without his helmet on, like he was memorizing his face.

“Yessir,” he said, and Beleren pushed himself off the wall.

“It’d probably be better to wait for this, but this is the sort of thing you don’t wait on. Come with me.”

“... Yessir!” Confusion and getting swept up in a whirlwind was apparently going to become a pattern with this general. He _really_ needed to compare with the other commanders.

“I know I haven’t had a lot of time to build trust and camaraderie with you, Commander Grim,” his general started to say as he walked, “but I’m dearly hoping you’ll trust me on this.”

“Of course I trust you, sir,” Grim replied, a knee jerk reaction, because it was better to pacify than ask questions, and the general snorted in amusement.

“You don’t even know how to feel about me,” he said dryly. “You know Jedi are empaths, right?”

Grim did not actually know that, and now panic and embarrassment was shooting down his spine as his eyes went _wide_ under his bucket. Oh, stars, that had to be a bad first meeting.

“It’s fine, Grim,” his Jedi pacified him. “You wouldn’t be the first person to have a conflicted reaction upon meeting me. Half of the High Council _still_ feel that way about me, and some of them changed my diapers.”

Grim coughed harshly at that, and the general’s lips twisted up in amusement.

“Not literally, of course,” he added thoughtfully. “I was brought to the temple at four and already potty trained. Just traumatized. Not that I remember much of it.”

A flash of curiosity overtook him, because traumatized didn’t sound right from what he knew of Jedi, and the general gave him a sidelong glance.

“You can ask,” he said soothingly, and dammit, empath. That was going to be a _nightmare_ to deal with.

“... Traumatized?” He asked uncertainly, and Tibalt hummed, tucking his hands into pockets that Grim didn’t even know were _there._

“Most younglings are taken in their toddler years, with parental consent,” he explained. “Despite popular misconceptions, Jedi don’t _steal_ babies. But they _do_ remove Force sensitive children from unfit homes, provided that they’re young enough to still adjust to temple life, and if not, they tend to put them in new homes, simply because the last thing this galaxy needs is traumatized Force sensitives with minimal training and a chip on their shoulder running around causing damage. It’s kind of one of the Jedis’ duties to keep Force sensitives in line.”

Ah. That was… Okay. Grim had never heard of that before. Granted, he’d only heard minimal things about Jedi as a kid, and all of it immediately pertained to training. He knew some of the stereotypes, but the way they lived and worked was beyond him.

“So, you were taken from an… unfit home?”

“A pirate ship,” the general corrected with a tiny huff of amusement. “Which is horribly ironic when you look back on it. Not to say pirates _can’t_ be good parents. I know quite a few Weequays with children running all around and underfoot that I get on fine with. But mine weren’t all that fantastic, from what I hear. When Plo Koon found me, I was basically one entire bruise and had to spend a week in the healing chambers.”

“You don’t remember?” Grim asked, and the general shrugged.

“I was four. You don’t remember much from being four, when you’re aging the way the majority of the galaxy ages,” he replied. “At least I have a high pain tolerance now, right?”

“I don’t follow, sir,” Grim said carefully.

“I’m Devaronian, mostly. The more pain we go through, the more we’re resistant. You wouldn’t _believe_ the things I can do after taking a blaster bolt to the gut,” he said wryly, and, oh, yeah, Grim was going to have a _nightmare_ of a time keeping this one alive. Oh, no.

“... Aw, don’t be so anxious, Grim,” the general said with a lopsided grin and tilted his head back to look up at the commander. “It’d take a Sith to kill me. You won’t have any troubles keeping me alive.”

“If you say so, sir,” Grim said dubiously, because from what he was seeing, this general was more likely to die from a percussive blast of a thermal detonator because he forgot fireproof didn’t equate to invulnerable. Or, with Grim’s luck, eat a poison that could _actually_ kill someone with two livers, or jump off a tower and not be able to catch himself, or take off on his own for some secret mission with no backup or anyone knowing where he went or…

“Grim,” the general said quietly, and Grim blinked multiple times. Ah. Yes. He needed to stop freaking out. “I’m hardier than I look. Promise. Practically indestructible.”

“That’s what I worry about, sir,” Grim said bluntly. Prime acted like he was indestructible, and Prime didn’t come home.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll eventually convince you,” the general chirped as they turned their final corner and arrived at… the medbay?

Why were they at the medbay?

“... Sir?” Grim asked hesitantly, and the general pushed him through the doors.

“Rumple! Butcher!” The general called cheerfully, and the two medics on duty poked their heads out to take in the sight of the commander and his general.

“Did you _already_ try to spar with him, sir?” Rumple asked in amusement, and Grim grimaced under his bucket, because _why_ was he here?

“Not at all! I just needed a guinea pig, and the commander seemed like the best bet! Butcher, hun, can you get me a scan of the good commander’s head? I’m looking for a small foreign object nestled in that worrywart brain of his!”

“You think I have brain damage, general?” Grim asked in confusion as the CMO, Butcher, rifled through his materials in search of a scanner. He was pretty damn sure he didn’t have brain damage. He would have been decommissioned by now if he did.

“No, but soon,” the general replied cryptically. “Take a seat, Grim, and get that bucket off.”

Now more confused than ever, because _what_ was going on with this Jedi, Grim took a seat on a bed and pulled off his helmet. Humming, the general reached forward to poke at his temple.

“It should be right here, Butcher,” he said. “Then I’ll need a scan on Rumple.”

There was a sense of unease in the room as the three clones all wondered if they really _had_ been stuck with a Jedi with a few screws loose, because that was what it was shaping up to look like. The general in question looked as cheerful and happy as ever, almost suspiciously so, while Butcher cautiously drew near, scanner at the ready to take a readout of Grim, and the anxiety descended on them all, because if they didn’t find whatever the general was looking for, would he get pissed? No clone had a good relationship with natborns interested in their medical charts.

“Yessir,” Butcher muttered while the general leaned on the biobed opposite Grim, arms crossed, chewing on his lower lip just enough to draw pinpricks of black blood. Grim thought to reprimand him, but Butcher was already getting a readout on him.

“... There is,” Butcher suddenly said, and blinked. Hard. “... General?”

“Rumple, c’mere,” the general ordered, and Rumple drew near, looking a little confused and out of sorts. “Butcher, scan him, please.”

Butcher looked between the general and Grim, visibly confused, and Grim gave him a nod, as confused as he was. There was an object in his brain? Why? And why would Rumple _also_ have something in his head?

“... He’s got something, too,” Butcher said carefully, looking a little flustered and lost at the confirmation while Rumple looked between all three of his superiors, obviously put out and unwilling to ask for reassurance. An object in the brain? That was just _begging_ for a decommission.

The general’s face was utterly unreadable as he hauled himself onto the bed across from Grim, hands gripping the bed and relaxing over and over, like it was a calming motion for him.

“Lot more real when it’s confirmed,” he muttered under his breath, hands pressing into the squishy material and flexing uncomfortably, the veins on the backs of them bulging.

“I’m not following, General,” Grim said uncomfortably, because he _certainly_ did not recall taking any shrapnel to the head.

“You wouldn’t be,” the general replied and tilted his head back. “I could give you a complicated story about how I know, but that’s not going to help anyone, but I _will_ say those are some interesting chips in your brain, all implanted when you were still in tubes, and there’s absolutely no documentation of them whatsoever. Nothing in the bills to the Senate, the terms of purchase, the deals with the Jedi, nothing. Kind of funny when we have entire breakdowns on your genetic sequencing and how your aging is accelerated.”

Grim wanted to ask why an eighteen year old Jedi Knight had access to those kinds of records. He wanted to ask why he bothered _reading_ them. He wanted to know just _why_ he knew about these foreign objects in their brains, why he was just _dumping_ this on them like he didn’t have any time to build trust and win them over. While he normally wouldn’t question a natborn not bothering to build trust, this knight had made his first statement to his men as demanding they view him as someone who protected them as much as they protected them. Like they were _worth_ defending, not just that it was expensive to lose them.

So there were a few questions in his head, and he knew his Jedi wasn’t going to tell him everything, from the look on his face, but also this was Grim’s _body,_ for how little it belonged to him, and it was the bodies of his _men._

“You said chips,” he started, slowly, hesitating, because he didn’t know how much he could ask.

“Rumple, love, could you lock the door for me?” Beleren asked casually as he started drumming his heels again.

“Yessir!” And Rumple was off like a bullet to lock the door and put on the ‘in surgery’ sign, relieved to have an order in the face of all of these _extremely_ rapid changes going on.

The Jedi waited for Rumple to rejoin them before he leaned forward on his knees.

“I want to take a few out and have them sliced into,” he said flatly, fingers laced together, elbows braced on the knees.

“All due respect, sir, you just got here, and that’s brain surgery,” Butcher said and straightened up significantly, all that protective CMO armor coming on, but Grim heard the word ‘chip’ and all he could think was that chips were for _programming._

“Are these chips a danger to my men?” Grim blurted as Butcher gave him an exasperated look. The general gave him a measured look, and Grim was hit yet again with that sense that this Devaronian was in _pain._ But why? It couldn’t just be his master, not when he looked at the vod'e like they were breaking his heart.

“I think you would consider it a danger,” the Jedi replied carefully. “I would.”

“That’s a very vague answer about a foreign object in the brains of men I’m supposed to be taking care of. Sir,” Grim said stiffly, and the Jedi sighed, dropped his head.

“This is why I didn’t want a command the last go around,” he muttered under his breath, and Grim’s brows furrowed. The Jedi hadn’t even _wanted_ this command? Granted, there were probably a fair few Jedi that didn’t _want_ a command, but Beleren had struck him in the same manner that the Cuy’val Dar struck him: already went through a war.

“Because you knew about the chips?” He asked bluntly, and the general’s shoulders shook as he let out a weird combination of a purr and a chitter.

“If I had known about the chips last time, I would be d… Well. Already did that. But we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” The general lifted his head and anxiously tugged on his long braid before he slipped off the biobed and started pacing. “No, I’m referring to the fact that I’m trained as a _spy,_ a _liar,_ a _manipulator._ Telling the truth is a lot more complicated than the tools I have in my kit, Commander Grim.”

“General Beleren, I’m a very simple man, so I’m going to need you to uncomplicate things,” Grim said sharply, sharper than he intended, because if _he_ had the chip and _Rumple_ had the chip then _all_ of his brothers had the chip, or at least a decent amount of them. And his general was apparently digging in his heels about revealing information.

“They’d tell you it’s to inhibit aggression, which doesn’t make all that much sense, does it?” The Jedi asked as Butcher gave Grim a concerned glance, evidently worrying that their general had a few screws loose and was going to get them all killed. “I mean, they managed to get your genetic coding down to make you _unnaturally_ obedient, far more than Jango, who I honestly wish wasn’t dead, because if he _really_ knew what was going on, we’d have a much better chance at dealing with this situation. But, no, Mace had to go for the head like a _nerf herder._ I told him that Vaapad was a bad idea, but no one listened to me last go around, and they’re _barely_ listening to me now. They made _Krell_ a general, after I _specifically_ told them not to.”

“Sir, you’re rambling,” Grim cut in, because that was a lot of information that seemed to have virtually no correlation whatsoever, and he was making the medics nervous.

“Sir, can I take your vitals, please?” Butcher asked, rather stiffly, and Grim resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. The general turned back around and let out a choked laugh, shaking out his hands and flicking circulation back into his fingers.

“I’m not losing it, Butcher, you just have _zero_ context as to why I’m stressed out,” he said wryly and took a deep breath. “Commander Grim, if you let your heart rate go up any higher, we’re _both_ going to end up sedated. Calm down and let me organize my thoughts.”

“Can you organize them _quickly?_ ” Grim asked before he could help it, and the general let out that weird chitter and purr again.

“I’ll do my best, commander,” he said and shook out his hands as Rumple looked between him and the door. “Rumple, there’s no need to be so anxious. We’ve got a head start here. Haven’t even had a battle since Geonosis, though we’ve only got maybe two more weeks of peace before things start getting _explosive._ Anyways. Let me think here… What _can_ I share?”

“Preferably all of it,” Grim said dryly, and the general gave him a quick grin, that cheerful spirit seeming a facade behind what looked _dangerously_ like a building mental breakdown, which couldn’t be a good thing in someone who could apparently shatter doors and airlocks with his mind.

“There’s a lot of it, Commander, so you’d better be careful what you wish for. I mean in the sense of how much tragic backstory you actually _need_ to support the facts.”

“Tell me the facts and I can decide how much tragic backstory is necessary,” Grim shot back, and _stars,_ he just got his general, why was he already back talking?

“There’s that backbone I knew you had!” The general was apparently delighted. Good to know. “Fine. The facts. Those chips are capable of turning off all of your free will for the purposes of carrying out commands. Some of those commands include triggering a genocide of the Jedi. I don’t know what else is on there, which is why I want to get into them, and hopefully have all of the medics in the GAR trained in secret in the removal of them before I can get to the root of the problem.”

Grim stared at him. Rumple stared at him. Butcher stared at him. And Jedi Knight Tibalt Beleren just smiled, big and wide, entirely unconcerned with the level of incredulousness in their gazes.

“How would you be privy to that information if you _just_ confirmed these chips exist and haven’t even gotten into one yet?” Grim asked, point-blank and feeling decades older, because _what?_

“I told you, Commander Grim. I’m a trained spy,” the Jedi responded, looking entirely amused, but that seemed to just be his default setting at this point, if the nervous flicks of his fingers were any indication.

“So you just _have_ this information?”

“Kaminoan defector, if you must know,” the Jedi replied. “The High Council thought all of this was just a _little_ too coincidental, and Sifo-Dyas was not… _entirely_ trusted by them. Towards the end of his life, he had been a little… The way he died was a bit too convenient, if you know what I mean. Not a whole lot of Kaminoans seen off planet, especially considering the system doesn’t even _exist_ in our records, as in a Jedi Master had to have removed it, which is _really_ convenient if you consider that Count Dooku left the Order pretty damn close to when Sifo-Dyas kicked the bucket, may the old nutjob rest in peace. So I did a little digging, called in a few favors, found a hit on a Kaminoan, tried to go collect them, but they were dead when I got to them. The apartment they were put in was trashed, like the hunter was looking for something, but I managed to find a datapad in the mess with a half corrupted holo recording on it. Someone let off a pulse that corrupted data files when they couldn’t find what they were looking for. I got something about chips and an… order number I’m not going to risk saying, managed to figure out these commands are voice activated, but I couldn’t find the other orders or what they did. I don’t even know the Kaminoan’s _real_ name, and the body was completely trashed. No DNA matching. It was a professional ripping.”

Grim felt like he was going to be sick. It was a blessing that he was sitting down, because if he wasn’t, he’d be on the ground. The Jedi was watching him carefully, looking between him and the medics, and Butcher stepped forward in Grim’s stunned silence.

“Is that why they gave you a legion?” Butcher asked flatly, and the general flicked his braid over his shoulder in an effort to not start toying with it.

“Yes and no. Not even the full High Council knows of this, but they know I’m investigating the holes in the dangerously convenient army that’s been dropped in our laps. It’s entirely self contained. We already had a Jedi turn on us and start this war, so the fewer people that know the better. I could have passed this information off to maybe Kenobi or Plo Koon, but unfortunately I’m here because I stupidly showed off that I’m a better duelist than Skywalker, which is basically unheard of in our age group. Most masters struggle with him in sparring.”

“So they’re letting an eighteen year old run this entire investigation with no backup or assistance,” Grim provided before he could stop himself, and _that_ was exactly why he wound up with this damned name.

“They gave an eighteen year old this entire ship and told him not to crash it,” the general pointed out diplomatically. “Do you know how expensive this thing is?”

“And they gave you a command of _thousands_ of men because you were a good duelist,” Grim continued, because the dread was starting to curl around his spine and seep into his pores, because what did being a good _duelist_ have to do with winning a war? How many people with lightsabers could they _possibly_ run into?

“No,” the general shot back calmly. “They gave me command of thousands of men because unlike most seasoned Jedi who don’t work out of the shadows, _I_ am already familiar with making uncomfortable and hard decisions for the sake of the Republic. I spent an entire _year_ pretending to be a pirate so I could track down an ancient Sith artifact that could actually possess people and had a bit of a proclivity for taking over Hutts. Most Jedi haven’t even _killed_ a sentient before.”

Grim was going to be sick. He was going to be sick. There was a _control_ chip in his head.

“Commander,” Tibalt, because Tibalt seemed _so_ much more attainable and trustworthy than _General._ “I’m going to need the three of you. Barriss Offee has volunteered to figure out how to extract the chips and I have a slicer to pass them off to. In the meantime, I’m going to assume you have a whisper network throughout the GAR. Once the 508th is de-chipped, I’m going to need you to start your network to get the rest of the GAR de-chipped without Coruscant noticing.”

At the mention of Coruscant, Grim’s eyes snapped up, suspicious and hard, and Tibalt met them with unwavering focus.

“You’re hiding something,” he said and Tibalt’s lips slowly pressed into a flat line.

“I am. It won’t be hidden forever. You will have to leave the Guard chipped. They can’t know. And Kamino… is going to be as difficult. I had a narrow window to start with, but I need you and your brothers to keep it open for me so I can do what I need to do.”

“And what do you need to do?” Grim demanded, and Tibalt swallowed harshly.

“Kill the sentient that put those chips in your brain,” he answered honestly, and _kriff,_ the Jedi had set up his _young and inexperienced General who already had a war to win to assassinate someone on Coruscant._

“And who is that?” Grim asked, sharp and harsh, and Tibalt looked away.

“If I tell you, you’ll get yourself killed,” he replied. “For now, let me keep that information to myself so I can keep you safe.”

“That’s not good enough, General,” Grim snapped before he could stop himself, and the general looked at him with eyes that _ached_ with pain that was too much for that young face.

“It’ll have to be,” he replied quietly and turned for the doors. “As soon as I can get Barriss in here, she’ll start the de-chipping procedures and teach the medics. I’d suggest you call a meeting with your captains and lieutenants.”

It was a dismissal, but Grim was a good soldier. He could take that, because he could hear what Tibalt Beleren wasn’t saying.

_“Trust me to keep your brothers safe.”_

The general stopped at the doors, his hand hovering over the button to let him out, before he looked over his shoulder at Grim and the two medics standing there.

“Goes without saying there should be _no_ radio chatter about this. No records. And… As for the sentient who did _this,_ ” and the way he said ‘this’ was almost bordering on full of rage, though if it was for the Jedi or for the clones, Grim didn’t know, “they’re not someone who can… They’re a Sith, the greatest one there is, and you’re likely going to meet quite a few that should tell you just how dangerous one is. He could kill hundreds of clones and not break a sweat. So let the Jedi avenge you all. If only to keep a minimum of senseless deaths.”

The doors unlocked and slid open, and the general slipped out, leaving the three lost and drifting clones alone.

“That was… Commander?” Butcher sounded a little lost, his face contorted in something between confusion and anger and pain.

“Did the objects look like chips?” Grim asked, point-blank, and the medic’s shoulders loosened.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and he sounded _defeated._ “They did.”

“Do you think he’s lying, Rumple?” Grim asked the field medic, who was still staring at the door.

“I don’t think he’s telling us everything,” Rumple admitted. “But I think he knows if he did tell the full truth, we wouldn’t be able to believe him, and he wouldn’t blame us.”

“So you think he’s nuts?” Grim clarified, and Rumple shook his head no.

“I think he probably hates that he’s sane enough that he has to deal with all of this.”

Stars, if that wasn’t relatable. Probably too relatable.

“You know,” Butcher finally said as the three of them stood there, trying to take everything in before they got into motion, “I think I’m going to like him.”

“I don’t think I will,” Grim grumbled, because the general seemed to be just toeing the line between frighteningly competent and utterly _nuts,_ and he was going to be the one taking the brunt of that.

“That’s because you’re the one going to be pulling him out of the blaster fire, Commander,” Butcher said cheerfully. “I only have to patch him up after the fact.”

“You’ll get sick of him eventually,” Grim declared and decided they had been standing around waiting for the world to crash in on them long enough. “Enough lollygagging. Butcher’s got research into neurology to do, and I got a meeting to call. Rumple, you’re helping with the briefing. Bring that scanner. I want to confirm this for myself.”

He had a job to do, and that job was to keep his men alive and a war won and a general safe. Chips or not, there was still a war going on, and they had precious little time to devote to this. The general had said they had about two weeks, and he had no idea what the recovery period was going to look like.

He’d have to start reaching out to other commanders. Get everyone on the same page, and let the GAR work like the well oiled machine it was.

And prepare for impromptu brain surgery.

  
Kriff, he’d never wanted to still be in a tube more than right now. Of _course_ he would end up with the spy general. Was it too late to trade with Cody?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'my general is better than yours' wars have already started. Love that for them.


	9. Chapter 9

_ “Tibalt,” Mace said, his voice coming in and out of Tibalt’s pain filled haze. “Glee, is he waking up?” _

_ “Give him a minute, sir, he took one hell of a hit,” a vod’s voice said as Tibalt twitched and groaned, pain flaring across his chest as he tried to piece together what happened. _

_ “Tibalt, can you hear me?” Mace asked as Tibalt tried to focus his eyes in vain. _

_ “Sir, your hovering is not helping,” the vod said, deeply annoyed and tired. “Give him a minute.” _

_ “Mace?” Tibalt croaked out as he tried to lift his hand, only for his arm to be pressed back down on the biobed. _

_ “ _ **_General Windu,_ ** _ if you don’t stop getting my patient wound up before he’s ready to wake up, I will throw you out of my medbay and drug your dinner,” Glee threatened, his hand tight on Tibalt’s arm and keeping it pressed down. “I just got him stable, I’m not letting you excite him.” _

_ “‘M awake, trooper,” Tibalt grated out and blinked harshly against the medical lights. _

_ “Now look at what you’ve gone and done, General,” Glee groused. “Honestly, I don’t know why I try. Put all this work in putting him back together and you go and don’t even let him sleep it off. What am I even here for, huh?” _

_ “Peace, Glee,” Mace said and swept messy curls out of Tibalt’s eyes. “He’s hardier than he looks.” _

_ “I’d believe it if he was  _ **_fully_ ** _ Devaronian, sir. He’s a pint sized DNA scramble of lightsaber wounds and a blaster bolt to the thigh.” _

_ “Do you agree with that assessment, Knight Beleren?” Mace asked, and it was only a medic’s sharp ears that could catch the amusement in his tone. _

_ “I am a DNA scramble,” Tibalt grated out and tried to sit up, but this time  _ **_both_ ** _ of them pushed him back down. _

_ “Peace, Tibalt,” Mace soothed and Tibalt blinked hard. “Who did you fight?” _

_ “Ventress,” Tibalt rasped. “She didn’t see my face or race. No skin visible that wasn’t painted.” _

_ “I noticed.” _

_ “Did you get the transponder codes?” Tibalt asked and blinked hard. _

_ “Yes. Do you realize we found you drifting in dead space?” Mace demanded and Tibalt groaned under his breath. _

_ “Hyperspace ring got clipped.” _

_ “I saw that. You could have  _ **_died,_ ** _ Tibalt.” _

_ “Isn’t that the game we all play?” Tibalt breathed out, the last thing he could manage before his hard won consciousness slipped through his fingers and the world went black. _

Tibalt’s eyes opened as he breathed through the sudden onslaught of memories of things that would never happen again. Breathe in, breathe out, let his livers settle down and freshly recycled air circulate through his body.

Stars, he could  _ not _ meditate to save his life nowadays. Every time he got yanked back to some memory or another he’d rather not relive, like he was having difficulty letting go when he wanted nothing  _ but _ to let go.

The door beeped, announcing a visitor, and Tibalt climbed to his feet, waving a lazy hand to let the door slide open as he started to gather his pieces of armor.

“Sir,” Grim said from the doorway, and Tibalt looked up at his freshly scarred commander, red horns painted on his vambrace and a spiderweb branching out around his visor on the left side of his helmet.

“Commander Grim,” Tibalt said as he latched on his vambraces and greaves. Grim let out a quiet, disgusted sigh and stepped inside, stopping Tibalt in his tracks as he undid the armor and strapped it on correctly. Humming, Tibalt let the commander manhandle him without a complaint.

“Something to report?” He asked mildly.

“You’re worse than a cadet at this, sir,” Grim groused.

“Jedi aren’t meant to wear armor,” Tibalt said quietly, and Grim’s hands paused before he brusquely shoved Tibalt around so he could wrestle him into his chassis and spaulders.

“Well, they’re meant to wear armor right  _ now, _ sir,” Grim said gruffly as expert hands strapped Tibalt down to a clone’s satisfaction.

“I assume this isn’t a social call, commander,” Tibalt said wryly as he checked his belt to make sure his lightsaber was exactly where he left it. Grim was  _ supposed _ to be meeting him in the hanger.

“I got you your chips, sir,” Grim replied and pulled a small box out of his utility belt.

“Thank you, Commander,” Tibalt said and held his hand out for the box. Grim placed it in his hand without hesitation, and Tibalt tilted his head back. “C7!”

The little fiery astromech wheeled out, beeping and whirring at Tibalt, and he knelt down with a half grin.

“Keep an eye on this for me, will you?” He asked and extended the small, slim box. C7 reached out with her mandibles to grasp the black box and hide it in her ‘pocket’, and Tibalt straightened up before throwing Grim a disarming smile.

“No one ever searches the droids,” he explained. “Projected time to come out of hyperspace, Commander Grim?”

“About ten minutes,” Grim replied and Tibalt stretched lazily.

“Well. Time to remember why I hate this planet so much, I guess.”

Grim eyed Tibalt suspiciously, and Tibalt stepped out jauntily, a pop in his step as the commander fell into step next to him as C7 settled to wait it out in his room, since he wasn’t going into his starfighter anytime soon.

“I have a feeling we’re all going to be finding out why you hate it,” he accused him, and Tibalt laughed brightly as the door slid shut behind them and locked. “And that feeling is being shown up by the feeling that you  _ knew _ this was going to happen.”

“Maybe. Us Jedi are full of surprises, Commander Grim,” he replied wryly. “I  _ did _ tell you we had two weeks.”

“I figured you were being facetious, General,” Grim replied grimly, and Tibalt flashed him a quick grin.

“Never, Commander.”

“So this slicer of yours is down there on the planet in the middle of all of  _ that? _ ” Grim asked, and Tibalt belatedly realized his hair was a mess and not even remotely appropriate for a first impression.

“She is. Along with a Jedi Temple that would be dangerous if left in Dooku’s hands, and a possible strategically vital point for an outpost.”

“And all of your people,” Grim pointed out.

“Please. All of my female people, maybe. And I’m only two-thirds Devaronian,” Tibalt said as he undid his braid and started working it back into something presentable. “Which anyone with eyesight could tell. Have you ever  _ met _ a full blooded cisgender Devaronian man my age?”

“... I think you probably know the answer to that, sir,” Grim said dryly as Tibalt tied off the braid.

“Two meters is considered an average height for a Devaronian male, Commander,” he explained with a huff of laughter. “Before we account for horns. I scarcely even look Devaronian to begin with.”

“Look plenty Devaronian to me,” Grim replied, and Tibalt let out a quiet sigh.

“Well, after this is over, you’re going to find out  _ exactly _ how little a full blooded Devaronian agrees with you.”

“They’ll have to go through me, sir,” Grim replied, almost a little viciously, and Tibalt rolled his eyes.

“You’ll have other things to deal with. I’ve only been sent because the local government would rather work with  _ at least _ a mixed breed than a Mirilian. Devaronians and Mirilians clash badly, and I was all that was available.”

“I would think all of that stuff doesn’t matter once you become a Jedi,” Grim said, almost sounding confused, and Tibalt actually laughed at that.

“Jedi are transcultural. We have our  _ own _ culture, yes, but bonds with our original cultures are actually encouraged. It would hardly be fair of the Jedi to take children from their homes in good faith with the parental permission and then completely cut them off from it. Especially for dying cultures and populations, like the Kel Dor. That’s why you see General Unduli and Commander Offee in their traditional clothes, and why most Twi'lek Jedi don’t wear the regular robes, or why most Togruta still wear their headpieces. Honestly, it’s a surprise I was raised in the Coruscant temple, given that I’m a third Corellian and would’ve been closer to my own people.”

“Why don’t Mirilians and Devaronians get along?” Grim asked, and Tibalt winced ever so slightly.

“I don’t act like most Devaronians,” he replied, and decided to leave it at that, because Grim was going to find out.

They were almost at the hanger, and Grim pulled Tibalt up short to give him one final checkover before the doors to the lifts opened to let them out.

“Grim, I’m actually fine,” Tibalt insisted. “You put the armor on yourself, remember?”

“Just let me check you, General,” Grim replied as he tugged on the armor to make sure it was firmly in place.

“Getting a lot of jitters for someone who’s already been through a battle,” Tibalt teased, and Grim looked downright affronted.

“Sir, the last time we went into battle, you immediately ran off to pick a fight with a Sith with nothing but another padawan for backup and wound up in the medbay because he electrocuted you,” he said, as if Tibalt had personally hurt his feelings, and, well…

“You got me there,” Tibalt acquiesced as the doors opened and Grim let him go. “Let’s get on these gunships!”

Vod'e were marching into the hangers in droves, all fresh and shiny and overcome with jitters, and Tibalt was suddenly overcome with the very real fear that he was going to get them all killed. He hadn’t commanded battles before. As a spy, they had always  _ been _ in his hands, but never to this intimate degree, and he might just completely kark up this mission and lead to devastating losses and---

His comm beeped, and he tapped on it before he could spiral out of control.

“Admiral Haas,” he said smoothly as he glanced down at the comm number.

“We are dropping out of hyperspace now, General Beleren,” the admiral said tightly, and Tibalt was hit with  _ another _ wave of ‘cannot kark this up’, because if he did, the admiral would  _ never _ trust him.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Tibalt said, as graciously as he could manage, because Haas had made it clear from the  _ start _ that he was not going to be enjoying taking commands from a Knight as young as Tibalt, nor did he think he was in a position to be  _ giving _ orders. Which was fair, but he didn’t have to take it out on  _ Tibalt. _ It wasn’t  _ his _ fault.

“Do try to survive getting through the blockade, General Beleren,” the Nautolan said, icy and angry, and Tibalt internally winced.

“Here’s to hoping you’ll come out of this with a more experienced general, Haas,” Tibalt said, because he couldn’t help himself, and just because Jedi were supposed to be  _ calm _ didn’t mean they were supposed to be  _ doormats. _

There was a shudder as they came out of hyperspace, and Tibalt zeroed in on the Domino Squad and Aces and Boomer in the gunship immediately to his right. There was his lucky team.

“This way, Commander Grim,” he ordered, and made for the gunship, which was preparing to take off. Mentally, he started cataloguing everything he needed. They were the first legion being sent down to the surface, so nothing had been set up. Preliminary planetary scouting and intelligence had a drop point set up for them, and the Separatists hadn’t gotten their claws into the system too deeply just yet. It would take two weeks at the most to drive them back and out, but last time the politics of General Unduli being sent to the surface had exacerbated the problem and turned what should have been a two week mission into a full month simply because the locals were entirely noncompliant with her. Devaronians could be a stubborn, proud people. Especially when it came to Mirilians. It had been an idiotic move to send down Unduli, but this time Tibalt was here. Only a few Devaronians would take offense to a ‘mutt’ Jedi, given the Devaronian male habit of gratuitously copulating all across the galaxy. The problem was that the few Devaronians that  _ would _ take offense were almost always in a position of  _ power, _ and to give up a child to the Jedi was meant to be an  _ honor _ and a  _ status symbol, _ and a mutt didn’t fit that image.

At least Devaronians, by and large, were not as transphobic as a pissed off Nightsister. It had been a goddamn  _ nightmare _ when Ventress found out her favorite pirate was a trans man. She had nearly had a conniption. He would have liked to see the look on her face when she found out her favorite pirate was  _ also _ the tenacious secret Jedi thief she had clashed with about four times while she was still in Dooku’s service.

It was going to be disappointing to not be able to play cat and mouse this time around.

“Got your plan, General?” Grim called as the fighters started to peel out and take off out of the hangers.

“Not yet!” Tibalt replied as the doors on the ships slid shut in preparation for taking off. The fighters would have to punch a hole in their defenses to escort the advance party. “First plan is just to get landed and set up the command center and send out scouts to see what I’m dealing with!”

“We’re taking off, sir!” Aces called into the back, and the gunship lifted off as Tibalt wrapped his hand around the loop.

“Get ready to kriff it up over there, Boomer!” Tibalt called before his eyes caught on the Domino Squad’s vambraces.

… Why in the  _ stars _ did they all have matching red horns on their vambraces?

“... Did you…” Tibalt trailed off and shut himself up as Grim’s head tilted to look between his gaze and the vambraces.

“We went through a battle already, sir,” Grim said, and it sounded like he was  _ almost _ making fun of Tibalt. “Paint was in order.”

These little…

Of course  _ his _ legion was going to be red.

“My favorite color’s purple,” Tibalt complained before he could stop himself, and Grim tilted his helmet at him.

“Yeah, but then it wouldn’t be obvious who this legion belongs to, sir,” he said flatly before they cleared the landing strip and were plunged into silence.

They couldn’t see what was going on outside very well. Explosions were rocking the ship, and Aces was taking his evasive maneuvers a little  _ too _ seriously, weaving in and out of the chaos he was seeing outside the cockpit, and Tibalt’s stomach dropped into his livers, because he  _ really _ wished he was the one flying right now. Or just flying in general. He was always more of a pilot than a tactician, anyways.

There was a telltale rattle as they started to enter the upper atmosphere, and Tibalt braced himself, Grim a solid weight next to him as the gunship rattled and shook as they cut through the layers of gas to plunge down towards the planet.

“We’re coming up on the landing zone!” Aces announced, and Tibalt took a deep, shuddering breath.

First step. Get the command center set up. Second step. Cut off the Separatist supply lines. Third step. Conquer an entire planet. Fourth step. Find his aunt’s wife and get his damn slicer so he could stop a genocide and a Sith taking total control of the galaxy so he could blow up planets and karked up nonsense like that.

Easy, right?

He could do this.

He was going to doom this entire galaxy.

Force, he was in so over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tibalt is absolutely internally screaming right now.
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

Okay, so the general definitely could be doing _worse._ They had been here for five days, and already they had made a lot of headway into the planet. The first thing he’d done was claim a weapons depot and landing strip for himself, and watching him just _rip_ droids to shreds had been more satisfying than Grim was willing to admit. Taking the actual landing zone had cut off the supply line to the capital, and almost every day you could see fighters dogfighting in the air above as the GAR air support gradually gained territory. With the landing strip taken, they had a steady stream of their own supplies coming in, and the general was _incredibly_ serious about keeping that supply line open, because they could _not_ lose it before the reinforcements arrived.

They had freed a fair number of towns and villages, too, as well as one single city, but the primary amount of people had been evacuated before the fighting even started. The locals were seemingly ferocious, not above grabbing a blaster and taking off a clanker’s head, but just like Tibalt had warned, it was mostly women and children.

So, he had been doing well. Right up until this point. Because right now the general was _not_ doing great, namely due to the current comm conference with the other generals and admirals, and Grim was hovering in the background as Tibalt waffled between politely telling them to get karked and actually cussing them out without any sign of remorse.

“All due _respect,_ General Mundi,” Tibalt hissed dangerously from between sharp teeth, “I have _thirty thousand men_ and you are asking me to push forward and take an _entire planet._ And I don’t even _have_ thirty thousand. A good chunk of them are aerial and spatial combat specialists and _not down here._ ”

“General Beleren, we do not have people nearby who can give you an assist, but Devaron is _vital_ for a future outpost,” General Mundi replied mildly. “I’m sure you can understand the importance.”

“I would lose half of my men and get the other half decommissioned because they wouldn’t heal to satisfactory levels,” Tibalt replied bluntly. “Are you ordering me to treat sentient beings like droids, General Mundi?”

“That’s not what I said, General Beleren,” Mundi soothed, and Tibalt gave him a biting, strained smile.

“I will hold the supply lines and keep this section of the planet open for reinforcements to land,” he repeated. “I do hope you can send someone soon.”

“General Beleren, you cannot just pretend you didn’t hear orders to get out of them,” General Windu cut in, and Tibalt tilted his head, his mouth forming a comical ‘O’.

“I’m sorry, General Windu, I was under the impression that we were all just pretending to not hear orders and facts.” Grim bit back a cough at the statement. “I _cannot take an entire planet_ with thirty thousand men, most of whom are just now seeing combat for the first time and barely have any leadership experience in real battle. There are seven major cities, only one of which I have managed to liberate, and the locals do not have a standing army, nor do I have the _time_ to train them into an ordered militia. I’m thankful for your trust in my capabilities, but I do _not_ have the logistical capacity to chase the entire Separatist army out. I can hold my ground where I am indefinitely, maybe get another city loose, but I cannot advance any further without colossal losses I am _not willing to take_ if I can just _wait_ until someone is free to provide reinforcements.”

“And people will _die_ while you wait, Tibalt!” Windu snapped, and Tibalt braced his feet in a way that made alarm bells go off in his head.

“And people will continue to die when I move, Master Windu,” he _almost_ snarled. “Get. Me. My. Reinforcements.”

“I could also use some reinforcements in orbit,” Admiral Haas cut in, actually managing to startle Tibalt. “General Beleren is correct. An aggressive push at this time may completely wipe the legion before we even manage to get to the capital, and while we might manage to pare down the amount of droids on the surface, it will be pointless if I cannot defend the air from the Separatists landing reinforcements. I need several more ships if I am to withstand it for much longer.”

“See? Admiral Haas agrees with me,” Tibalt said, _almost_ smug, and Grim resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands at how downright _childish_ he sounded.

“Hm. General Koon, in the Shasos sector, are you not?” General Yoda asked, and the Kel Dor ran his hand thoughtfully over his rebreather.

“I am, yes,” he said. “Not _too_ far from General Beleren. And I am with General Unduli, so she can hold our position, as I fear she will not fare well on… Devaron.”

“Mobilize your forces, you will,” General Yoda said sageously. “Provide support to General Beleren and Admiral Haas. Devaronians do not dislike Kel Dor, so negotiations you will handle, when the planet is liberated.”

“Oh, I believe they will be _more_ than happy to do negotiations with General Beleren,” General Koon mused, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“But appreciating handling negotiations with his kin, General Beleren will not,” General Yoda said, and Tibalt reached up to rub at his forehead just as Grim’s comm beeped.

“Grim here,” he said and turned aside, glancing back at Tibalt graciously thanking the council for his reinforcements.

“Clankers advancing on quadrant 34-7, sir!” Someone shouted over the sound of blaster fire. “We need backup, sir!”

“We’re on our way,” Grim said and turned to the general. “Sir, Torrent Company is under fire.”

“I have to go,” Tibalt said immediately. “Thank you, I’ll expect you in the next cycle. Excuse me.”

The call cut off, and Tibalt turned on his heel, braid swaying at his waist as he readjusted his vambraces.

“Get the speeders ready,” he ordered. “I’ll ride with you.”

Well. That was concerning.

.

.

.

.

.

Grim should have anticipated this. The general took one look at the sidecar and just cut the entire thing off with his damn lightsaber before climbing on the back with Grim, and now Grim was paying the price in the form of a precariously balanced Jedi behind him, one hand on his shoulder, crouched on the back of a speeder as he deflected bolts left and right. The massive Separatist tanks were just ahead, and Grim was already bracing himself for the general doing something stupid because the AT-APs weren’t here yet.

“Wanna see a cool trick, Grim?” Tibalt shouted over the howl of blaster fire, lazily redirecting a bolt right back into a clanker.

“I’d rather you stay put with me, General!” Grim called despite himself, and Tibalt’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Take me in a bit closer, Commander!” He ordered, and Grim internally swore, whipping the speeder around dangerously and tearing through the trees, the general tensing behind him.

A fun thing to learn was that you could _feel_ the Force push against you when someone jumped off within close quarters, and it gave Grim the scare of his _life_ as Tibalt soared up and over, flipping once as he landed on the cannon barrel of one tank, balanced lightly in a crouch with his arms spread. A few bolts were deflected as the relief squad circled back around, hot and muggy wind whipping around them, and Tibalt paused, precariously centering his gravity as the clanker in the other tank presumably panicked and turned the cannon on the main threat here.

“Oh, _kriff,_ ” Grim swore as he realized what Tibalt was doing, but it was too late to tell him _no,_ because the other tank was firing as Tibalt leapt into the air, half caught in the explosion as his clothes caught fire.

_Kriffing hells._ Grim had thought he’d _at least_ have a full six months before Tibalt decided to prove that he was fireproof.

The Jedi landed on the other tank, still on fire and _not seeming to give a damn,_ before he cut out the top and just dropped in. There was the sound of banging and crashing, a yelp, and Grim tore his attention away to focus on taking out the last few clankers they had to deal with. A few well placed bolts and they went down, right before Tibalt leapt out of the tank _just_ as it blew up.

The general hit the ground and rolled, his tunic half burned off and red skin on full display, dusting himself off as he strolled over to Grim.

“Rate me!” He crowed and spread his arms, covered in soot, flyaways singed, half dressed, and about to send Grim into an early grave.

“We get it,” he drawled. “You’re fireproof.”

“And so is the armor, apparently!” Tibalt declared and knocked his knuckles on the pauldron. “Didn’t even budge!”

“Sir, you don’t have any extra clothes,” Grim said, thoroughly aggrieved. “You already wrecked the last tunic.”

“Plo Koon always knows to bring extra tunics if he’s seeing me, don’t worry!” Tibalt replied, cheerful and suicidal as ever as he hopped up behind Grim. “Leave some men here to fill in the holes of Torrent Company and get us back to command, please!”

This damn mutt was going to send him into an early grave. Grim was convinced.

Would it be inappropriate to ask a council member if the Order made fireproof tunics? His men were not going to be able to handle consistently seeing the general without a shirt, and honestly, Grim wasn’t going to be able to survive, either. He knew he was probably a lot bulkier under those monk robes, but this was just _distracting._

Grim was just going to have to request fireproof clothes, propriety be damned.

With a sigh, he threw the speeder into gear and took off back to command, waving off two squads to fill in the gaps of Torrent Company. They were going to be having a long, long campaign if Plo Koon didn’t get here soon.

.

.

.

.

.

_“You again,” Ventress hissed as Tibalt balanced dangerously on the catwalk, dabbed up in body paint and swaying in the howling wind as his eyes drifted to his prize, the sole copy of the blueprints for the Malevolence. Subtly, he inched closer to the tower of plans, and she leveled her saber at him._

_“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” she purred and sprang up, balancing lightly on the catwalk opposite him. Tibalt glanced past her to the spiraling data wall and tilted his head in consideration._

_“Still not talking, little one?” Ventress teased. “I was worried you died, really. You gave me a fright.”_

_Tibalt backed up a few feet and swayed dangerously as the wind whipped around them, unbalancing them and threatening a long, long fall._

_“Oh, I’m just wasting my time,” Ventress said with a laugh, and then_ **_lunged._ ** _Tibalt’s saber activated on instinct, blocking and batting the saber aside just in time as he took a few steps back, crouching down, arms stretched out for balance. Ventress pressed the attack, and Tibalt went on the defense, stepping back and back and back, towards the very edge, ducking and weaving out of her strikes as her eyes narrowed more and more._

_“You’re playing a game,” Ventress hissed, and Tibalt braced himself before launching up, spinning over her and landing on the catwalk. Breaking out in a run, he slid up to the tower of data files and yanked out the file on Malevolence, shoving it into his belt and springing back as a blazing red saber cut through the files, sending up sparks that rained down between the two of them._

_“Come on, little Jedi, don’t you want to_ **_play_ ** _with me?” Ventress demanded and lunged forward, the burning heat of the saber nearly slicing across Tibalt’s masked cheek, and he twisted, heart hammering in his chest as he activated his blade and blocked her, throwing her off and reaching forward to slam his flat handed fist into her solar plexus. Ventress coughed, stumbling back, and sliced at him, but he stepped into her guard, wrapping his arm around her forearm and yanking her over his hip. Ventress slammed into the catwalk, likely unaccustomed to someone being willing to do hand to hand combat in the middle of a lightsaber duel. Not waiting for her to get up, Tibalt broke into a sprint, leaping up and off the catwalk to land on the one leading to the exit far, far below as he considered blowing up the whole facility and calling it a day._

_He didn’t have the time for that. Not with Ventress on his heels like this. With a screech, she landed behind him, and an invisible force pulled him up and threw him to the side. A yelp escaped his throat and he crashed into a wall, hitting the ground hard and gasping for air as she pinned him with the Force, advancing on him, slow and steady._

_“We were just getting to know each other, little one,” Ventress purred. “I wonder what race you are under all those wraps. I’m guessing something with horns, hm?”_

_A saber leveled at his throat as she reached out to keep him pressed down and pinned, and Tibalt took a deep, shuddering breath. Well. This was it._

_At least the Republic wasn’t going to burn if he died._

Tibalt awoke with a strangled gasp, his hand flying to his throat as he took in the sight of the tent roof above him.

_Kriff,_ why did he have to keep reliving everything?

“Sir?” The guard stationed outside the tent called, and Tibalt belatedly realized he had his saber in his hand and activated, blazing brightly in the darkness of the tent. The flap opened and the vod peered in, taking in the sight of Tibalt sitting there, panting and sweating in the gloom of the tent.

“Sorry,” Tibalt rasped. “As you were.”

“... If you’re sure, sir,” the vod said, and ducked back out as Tibalt reached for his chrono to check the time. Four hours. He’d slept four hours. Great.

With a groan, he swung off the cot and deactivated the blade, putting it back on his belt as he pulled at the too-big blacks top laying heavy across his torso. A sigh escaped his lips and he stepped out into the jungle night, stretching as the guard snapped to attention.

“Sir, are you sure you should be up…?” The guard asked hesitantly, and Tibalt gave him a sidelong glance.

“This is a campaign. Sleep is a luxury here, not a necessity,” he replied and stepped out, eyes casting over the campfires dotted across the expanse of the command zone. Someone was cooking fresh meat, and it was making him salivate. He hadn’t eaten in awhile, and rations were balanced for a Human, not the demands of a taurine-filled Devaronian diet, Human blood or not. Some of the local guides should be here soon, anyways. The jungles of Devaron could be treacherous with the wildlife, as the 508th legion had been learning. Once Plo Koon got here, they’d be needing guides to help them push to the capital, and traditional guides knew the old hunting trails and signs of a guntun territory better than anyone. Wanderlust Devaronian pilgrimages were still a thing on this planet, despite how many of the pilgrimages primarily happened among the stars.

With a yawn, he turned to the guard and scratched at his itchy scalp.

“Grim still asleep?” He asked. He’d _better_ be.

“Yessir!” The guard confirmed, and thank the Force for _that,_ Tibalt hated using that damned trick that knocked people unconscious, left them too groggy. Maybe when they had some shore leave.

“Great. I don’t think he’s slept a solid three hours since we landed, so don’t let anything short of an aerial assault wake him up. Need my commander alert and all!”

“We’re genetically engineered to not need much sleep, sir,” the guard said wryly and Tibalt squinted at him midway through a scratch of his jaw.

“That just means you function better than the average Human without your full eight hours. Well, your average neurotypical Human. You would not _believe_ the kinds of things I have seen a Human with bipolar mood disorder do.”

“I can imagine quite a lot, sir,” the guard said stiffly, and Tibalt snorted.

“I saw a Human write a full length epic, three hundred thousand words, in thirty cycles just because their medication was off by five milligrams. Humans are, objectively, some of the stranger species in this galaxy.” He did really miss Garland. They were great company, had the wildest imagination. He could listen to them ramble for hours while they were lounging around in the cockpit in the middle of hyperspace. Hondo had tried to poach them at _least_ four times just because they were so wonderful to be around, and they were a damned good engineer.

The pang of loss hit him once again and he tried to fix the ill-fitting blacks top to cover the emotional chair to the face that left him cringing in on himself.

“I’m not sure how much writing that is, sir, but it sounds like a lot,” the guard said, and Tibalt laughed.

“If you think of it in terms of time consuming in the same vein of filling out reports, that’s at _least_ one hundred mid-sized mission reports,” he explained, and the guard actually straightened up a little at that.

“They must not have valued sleep much.”

“Sleep didn’t value them much. You probably won’t need to guard my tent if I’m not in it. Let’s go get some food. What’s your name?”

“CT-3409, sir,” the trooper replied. “I… haven’t picked or been given a name yet. Sir.”

Ah. A clone that didn’t stand out enough to warrant anything yet. Tibalt could sympathize with that.

“May I call you Nines in the meantime?” He asked as the clone fell in step next to him. “It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

“Nines is fine, sir,” the clone, Nines, replied, and twitched _ever_ so slightly. There was a waft of disbelief mixed with excitement from him, and Tibalt belatedly realized that naming a clone as a Jedi probably meant the name was going to be permanent.

He should have picked something cooler. Kriff, he hadn’t thought that through.

“Well. Let’s go track down that food,” Tibalt said cheerfully, deciding not to comment, and checked his chrono. He had no idea how long it took Plo Koon to get his forces in order and with their mission details before they left, but if he had left _immediately,_ it would stand to reason that he would be arriving within the next thirty minutes, and there was no word about any space combat, which meant he would probably be cleared to land as soon as he got here. Based on that, Tibalt had about six hours to make sure all of his troops were reasonably well rested and their campsite packed up before it was time to press on and meet up with Plo on the way to the capital.

Which meant he was going to be stuck in these ill fitting blacks for _awhile,_ and that was a pain in the ass, if you asked him. Maybe he should cut off the sleeves…

Or just rip them off.

“Sir, what are you… Oh.” Nines looked _almost_ affronted at the way he ripped off his sleeves with cavalier precision and stuffed the excess in his pockets, just in case. Never knew when some ripped off sleeves could come in handy.

“They’re in the way,” Tibalt said with a shrug as he put his vambraces back on and flexed his hands. “Why do you all keep painting my horns on your vambraces?”

Nines tilted his head in a way that signified surprise at Tibalt even needing to ask the question.

“How else are we going to keep track of who’s chipped and who isn’t?” He asked with some degree of bemusement as they drew closer to the sound of sizzling meat. “They’re using Mirilian tattoo patterns on the arm with the 41st Corps. In case something happens and we need to quarantine vode.”

Tibalt blinked at the sheer amount of sentimentality in the gesture. It was practically a declaration of loyalty. And an actually nifty way of keeping track. It was a damn good thing the medical procedure itself didn’t _actually_ take that long, which was all due to the fact that the clones themselves were designed to be able to have the chips easily removed without a significant recovery time, in case something went wrong. It was more akin to a concussion, and a spray of bacta fixed them right up. And it didn’t take long to _remove_ the chip, either, especially with all of the medics trained on the removal, not just the medical officers.

Now that he thought about it, Alpha Company, who he was generally with, since it had his Domino Squad, all had the paint. They must have prioritized who would be around him the most. Really, he shouldn’t have expected any different. Shiny or not, these were clones, and clones were efficient and planned for every eventuality. Which was probably why Grim had been so obsessed with herding him around and keeping him in the vicinity of Alpha Company.

He had said he was going to hand it all off to the clones. It was their bodies, their brains, their _free will_ that was in question here, and therefore, it was _their_ business. But he almost wanted to ask Grim how many other legions and corps knew about the chips, and how the removal process was going. It had only been two weeks, after all, and this was a word of mouth sort of thing, not something that could go through datapads and comlinks. There had to be no record. Barriss had downloaded everything about the procedure onto ten datapads without a net connection, and they had been sent to make the rounds from ship to ship, but that was the only record available, and Tibalt could attest to it being next to impossible to get hands on one without being a clone.

He was worried about how it would look when the word got to Krell’s battalion. The Besalisk should have never been given a command, and he had _told_ Mace that, only to be overruled, because they just couldn’t spare him. He was a fit and able bodied Jedi Master, not a healer, or a records keeper like Jocasta Nu, and not trained in the slightest in undercover operations like Master Vos or Tibalt. There was only one path for him, and Tibalt had only barely managed to beg that they strictly put him on recovery and extraction until he could figure out what to do with him.

There were a million and one other problems to deal with, of course. As far as Tibalt recalled, he Fell because of visions of the future, and Tibalt was already putting things in motion to change that fate. But just because he might not Fall to the Dark Side didn’t mean the way he treated his troops was acceptable or something Tibalt would just lay down and _take._ Republic be damned, clones were _people,_ and you couldn’t just treat them like droidbait.

He couldn’t worry about that right now. One thing at a time. One insignificant slicer needed to be procured and hidden in the Unknown Regions until he could call her forward as a witness. Force, why was he having to balance a _war_ in the middle of all of this? He wasn’t even _remotely_ qualified for all of this.

Belatedly, he realized he’d never replied to Nines, who was not looking at him, likely because he thought he’d embarrassed Tibalt and didn’t know how to approach that. Which was ironic, because Tibalt was only _marginally_ embarrassed and primarily just worried about how to conveniently get Krell out of the way while both toeing the line of the Jedi Code and managing to save the lives of thousands of clones. If only assassination was acceptable, but alas, the _last_ time a Jedi tried to assassinate someone, he Fell to the Dark Side for a possible rapist, of all the things, definite serial killer, given the way she _delighted_ in carving through clones like they were playthings.

No, Tibalt was not going to be Falling, because out of _all_ of the Jedi they needed to stay on the Light or at _least_ Gray Side, he was _definitely_ who they needed right now. Anakin Skywalker was secondary, of course, but Tibalt was _definitely_ not someone who could afford to Fall because he thought he could play assassin. If he wanted to have an emotional blow up and go on a (partially deserved) murder spree, it could wait until the end of the war, thank you very _much._

“It’s very sentimental,” Tibalt finally decided on saying, and Nines cautiously nodded.

“It is, sir,” he agreed, and Tibalt looked up at the clear night sky above him.

“We could do with a little sentimentality,” he murmured as he fought off feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. “Wouldn’t you agree, Nines?”

“I would, sir,” Nines agreed, and followed his gaze. “Is it weird, fighting for your home world?”

“I don’t have much of a connection to it, but most Devaronians lack a connection to home,” he replied as they finally reached the firepit. “Especially the men. We were all born to wander the stars.”

“Well,” Nines said slowly. “You definitely got the stars, didn’t you?”

“I did, indeed,” Tibalt agreed, just as the vode around the fire stumbled to their feet. “No need for that, gentlemen. I’m here because I sniffed out meat, not because I wanted to interrupt your meal. Mind if I sit with you all?”

“Of course, sir!” A vod sounded off and they all scrambled to make room for him and carve off a piece of dripping meat from the razor hog. “Here you are, sir!”

“Thank you,” Tibalt said graciously and accepted the plate of sizzling red meat. His mouth was already watering. Dammit, he hated these hunter instincts. Already his eyes were darting about to catch sight of shadows darting about on the edges of camp. “Who did such a fine job of dressing this pig?”

“Uh, that’d be me, sir,” a clone with his hair buzzed into three thick lines at the top of his skull said with an awkward raise of his hand.

“Couldn’t have done better myself, and I grew up hunting,” Tibalt said and took a bite of the meat. “What’s your name?”

“Jetstream, sir!” The clone replied, and Tibalt committed it to memory as his eyes darted to the helmet on the ground with circles in three neat rows down the top.

“Wonderful to meet you, Jetstream.”

“... Jedi go hunting?” Jetstream asked anxiously, seemingly surprised, and Tibalt blinked at him.

“Not all of us,” he replied. “I had an unconventional apprenticeship which involved getting stranded on uninhabited or messy planets with my master. A lot.”

Nicanus _did_ get them stranded. Often. Honestly, he should have let Tibalt pilot from the start. He couldn’t land a ship to save his life.

“So, you had a lot of survival training,” Nines supplied while Tibalt dug into the meat. Hells, had it really been four years since he was an apprentice? Time really flew when you weren’t having any fun and the galaxy was imploding.

“If you could call it that. I called it getting lost and traumatized in ancient Sith temples on the hunt for artifacts that kept getting misplaced,” Tibalt said dryly. “And by misplaced I mean stolen, often by crime syndicates and the Hutts.”

“Sorry, you’d get tangled up with the _Hutts?_ ” A clone asked in disbelief, and Tibalt’s eyes flickered in mirth.

“Generally with thermal detonators and blasters involved, yes.”

“You can shoot a blaster?” Jetstream asked, like the fact that Tibalt could shoot a blaster was more surprising than him getting into a fight with the most powerful mobsters in the Outer Rim, which was admittedly fair.

“I can do a lot of things, Jetstream,” Tibalt replied, the corner of his mouth curling up. “You wouldn’t _believe_ what I can do with a datapad, holonet access, and a direct link to the Republic citizen database.”

He had made a _lot_ of false identities over the years. It was a wonder his cover had never been blown, honestly. The security clearance helped, at least. His blood wasn’t even on record, despite being arrested multiple times for multiple ‘faces’.

“Sir, you make it sound like you’ve made fake identities, which is highly illegal,” Jetstream said in amusement, his eyes crinkling with an almost manic smile, and Tibalt tilted his head to take in the sight of Z-6 rotary blaster cannon behind him, and ah, yes, that was going to be the wrecking ball type. Tibalt had never met a frequent user of the rotary blasters that didn’t have a few screws loose, which honestly, he loved them for.

“I was a Shadow Apprentice, Jetstream, I did a lot of highly illegal activities,” Tibalt replied as he ripped off a piece of meat with his teeth and swallowed it whole without even thinking to chew. There was a pause around the fire, and then he realized that must have looked borderline feral. Ah. Whoops. “Apologies. Haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“What’s a Shadow?” Nines asked, and Tibalt blinked. They didn’t know? In _his_ legion?

“A Shadow? A specific kind of Jedi, generally known for walking a _very_ close line between Light and Dark due to the kinds of duties we perform. Specifically, hunting down Sith artifacts and destroying them or locking them away and out of reach to the general populace,” he explained. “Most rarely stay put in Sith temples, so I often was tasked with going undercover and infiltrating less than savory organizations to retrieve the artifact, which, of course, meant I was often used for _other_ missions not to do with artifacts, because most Jedi aren’t trained with my skill set.”

“Sith, like they’re calling Count Dooku,” Jetstream said, and Tibalt hesitated.

“Well, he hasn’t _technically_ been confirmed as Sith, but he’s Sith, yes.”

“So a Jedi that’s lost it?” Jetstream asked, and Tibalt screwed up his nose. It was good for them to understand what they were going up against, at least. It would be hilariously unfair for him to just tell them to point and shoot without explaining why they had to do it.

“Not often, no. It _can_ be a Jedi that Fell, but often it’s simply the antithesis of the Jedi. We reject emotions because we are extremely powerful people who can be very dangerous if we let them run loose, but Sith believe there is more power found in channeling and directing their emotions, which isn’t necessarily a _bad_ thing, when not done by a Sith, but they find rage and hatred and fear to be the most powerful emotions, so they let the Force warp them into something very Dark, with disregard for sentient life and a desire to rule. So, often, you find Jedi believing themselves to be symbiotic with the Force, or servants of it, whereas Sith consider themselves masters of it. It’s about choices, or lack thereof.”

“You don’t seem like you reject emotions at all, sir, begging your pardon,” Nines said, and Tibalt laughed.

“I guess that needs more clarification. I reject emotions _ruling_ me. Sith treat emotions as fact. I treat them as information, to be processed and analyzed, occasionally added to my assessment of a situation, and set aside, no different than the thoughts in my brain. Jedi still feel, love, hope, anger, grief, it’s just that we don’t let it run our lives. Like attachments. Most people interpret Jedi rejecting attachments as us not being able to, say, have lovers or friends, which couldn’t be further from the truth. We _can._ We just have to not fear losing them to death or a new path in life, and accept that even people we love very much can come and go. And, of course, _they_ have to accept that our duties and the lives of many come before theirs. Which, of course, is not something people outside the Order understand, and thus the entire thing is a little lost on people. Quite irritating, actually.”

Tibalt actually rolled his eyes at that. While it had been partially (mostly) his fault, he had a string of broken hearts behind him, or maybe ahead of him, that could attest to the complete lack of understanding.

“Honestly, I don’t understand people’s idea of romance outside of the Order at _all._ Whenever they’d get mad at me and come at me with a vibroblade because I couldn’t love them like they wanted… Hm. Really makes you wonder just what kind of _love_ they want and why it has to have so many threats of violence involved.”

“Sorry, sir, but you had people coming at you with knives over breakups as a _teenager?_ ” Jetstream asked, rather gleefully, his soft brown eyes just _lighting up_ at the very concept, and Tibalt crinkled up his nose. Nineteen _hardly_ qualified as the teenager _Jetstream_ was thinking of, but… 

“You’ve clearly never tried to break up with a Dathomiri female. It’s not just the Nightsisters that can get nasty. Zabrak males, by and large, are _much_ easier to end things with.”

She was twenty, so she might as well have been a teenager. Thank the stars he wouldn’t have to go through that a second time. Jutari had chased him all over the spaceport and he’d had to leave half his crew on the planet to come back for later just to get away from her. At least she’d solidified his reputation as a no-good pirate scumbag in the aftermath, because no one would suspect the half clothed and barefoot Devaronian-Human hybrid bolting through the streets with his tits out and a smoking horn clipped with a blaster bolt of being a Jedi Knight. _He_ certainly wouldn’t have thought he was a Jedi. Not even Quinlan Vos had ever stooped so low, though the master _had_ laughed his ass off for a good twenty minutes when he saw the holovid. And then helped him hide the evidence from the High Council, because he got it. Sometimes being undercover got messy in a way that just _couldn’t_ be explained to those serene masters that had never in their _lives_ had to pretend to be a pirate skug.

Well. At that point, he wasn’t really _pretending._ He just was doing it with ulterior motives.

“Or maybe I just have bad taste in women, decent taste in men, and better taste in everyone else,” Tibalt added, rather thoughtfully as he swallowed another hunk of meat whole, barely even tasting it. “But none of you should repeat that to any other generals. Or commanders. Or Jedi in general. They know I’m ill-behaved, but there’s only so much they can take before they start getting passive aggressive, and I _hate_ passive aggressive.”

“You really like making Jedi seem as normal as possible, don’t you, General?” Another clone piped up, and Tibalt’s lips twitched.

“If anyone should know we’re not emotionless hunks of flesh, it should probably be the people most invested in getting us out of this war in one piece. After all, we can’t have you all thinking we’re immortal, can we?”

A quiet, awkward silence descended as several clones looked down at the dual curling red horns painted on their vambraces, and Tibalt exhaled through his nose slowly. Right. This legion, at least, and one corps somewhere in dead space knew just how mortal Jedi really were. They wouldn’t have had the chips otherwise, and the realization was an ache in Tibalt’s chest. He would have waited until later in the war to bring this up, when they were more accustomed to the stress and more capable of dealing with it, but…

It would have felt like a violation, or even a breach of trust. He couldn’t do that. Not to the clones. As terrified as he was of them at times, he knew it wasn’t their fault. He knew. He’d always been sick at the idea of the army he was drafted into, but with the knowledge of the chips…

Even if he lied, said he got the information later, miraculously under the nose of the commander glued to his hip, he would have known he didn’t tell them immediately, and the very idea felt like a betrayal of _them._ Tibalt was someone that lied quite a lot, and very well, so he knew when telling as much of the truth as possible was more important than anything. And the clones deserved the _truth,_ and a choice from the very start. It wasn’t just about saving the Order. It was about saving them from living with the violation.

He had to save them both. He just _had_ to. And if he saved both the Order and the GAR, maybe he could save Alderaan.

Tibalt gulped down the last of the meat as more clones came out of tents for the shift change and straightened up with a loud, obnoxious sigh and a crack of his back. Ouch. He was barely noticing the oppressive humidity, but his men were starting to look uncomfortably moist.

“The guides should be here soon,” he said with a yawn as his comm beeped. That had to be them. Tibalt tapped the button and tilted his head to squint over at Grim’s tent, making sure the shift change didn’t disturb him.

“General Beleren here,” he said.

“Tibalt, my dear, we have arrived,” Plo Koon’s smooth voice rumbled out, and Tibalt perked up immensely.

“Oh, you really rushed for me, didn’t you?” He teased as he turned aside from the fire, Nines scrambling to follow him, and Plo chuckled on the other side of the line.

“Better I arrive early than you lose your temper and curse out the High Council, little Tibalt,” he said, and Tibalt winced _ever_ so slightly. He shouldn’t have done that in front of Plo. Plo always had the fondest way of expressing his disappointment, and Tibalt was always weak to it.

“General, the commander requested you make sure he has spare tunics,” Nines said, just loud enough for Plo to catch it, and Tibalt gave him an aggrieved, borderline betrayed look.

“Have you already lost your shirt, Tibalt?” Plo asked, thoroughly displeased, and Tibalt winced.

“I’ll transmit the landing zone coordinates to you. I’m to the south of the capital, and I need you to the east. We can meet up in the middle,” he said firmly. “I have guides going to your location, and am expecting to start the push at zero-four hundred local hours. We should reach the capital by noon, and can have the final push ready by nine hundred hours to take it.”

“So I should bring the spare tunic,” Plo said, completely ignoring everything Tibalt just said that made him sound close enough to a responsible adult, and Tibalt blew out his nose as he rubbed at his temple.

“Yes, bring the spare tunic.”

“We are beginning landing procedures now. I will see you at noon, General. May the Force be with you.”

“May the Force be with you.”

The communication cut and Tibalt gave Nines a withering glare.

“I’m never letting Grim assign you to me _again,_ ” he promised, but Nines already knew Tibalt had once had a heartbroken Zabrak come at him with a knife, and was therefore never going to be afraid of him again.

“Of course, General,” he said, rather stiffly, but in a way that said he was _not_ going to be taking that threat seriously, and Tibalt decided maybe the intimidation factor of Jedi mysticism was a good thing, actually.

Force, he needed to find Aelia and get off this blasted jungle planet already. He would sooner be on Corellia than Devaron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slutty heartbreaker Tibalt rights!!!
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	11. Chapter 11

“Generals, we have a problem!”

Commander Wolffe came running up to the two generals while Tibalt sat perched on a boulder while Rumple patched up his sprained wrist. Plo looked up, arms crossed and brows furrowed while Tibalt let Rumple smear bacta on his red skin. The commander had his helmet off, and Tibalt looked away while anxiety and guilt gnawed at his gut. It was his fault last time around that the Wolfpack had been lost. Well, not  _ precisely _ his fault, but his fault in a roundabout way. Woffle still had his eye here.

“What is it, Commander?” Plo asked as he crossed his arms seriously.

“A Neomodian shuttle just got through the blockade and landed in the city. We aren’t sure who just arrived, but it must have been an officer.”

Something cold and hard dropped into Tibalt’s liver and Plo gave him a sharp look as his shields trembled ever so slightly. Wolffe and Asajj Ventress weren’t supposed to meet this early, but if he remembered it right, she took his eye the first time they met. Force, Tibalt was under  _ way _ too much pressure. How was he supposed to balance actually  _ fighting _ this time around  _ and _ ending this damned war?

“What is the matter, Tibalt?” Plo asked as Tibalt briefly realized that if he was  _ changing _ things, that meant he had to actually be competent at more than memorizing dates and how battles went.

“I’m not sure it’s an officer,” Tibalt decided on, because as far as he was aware, no one knew of Asajj Ventress yet. “It feels…”

“Darker?” Plo prompted as Tibalt tried to think of a convincing lie.

“Maybe,” Tibalt decided and looked out to the thick jungle between them and the capital. There was a lull right now, giving them enough time to breathe and regroup, but his wrist wouldn’t be better for several more hours, and a full on duel with Ventress wasn’t  _ ideal. _

Then again, duels with Ventress were  _ never _ ideal, and he’d fought her under worse circumstances.

“Well, the plan will not change,” Plo decided. “The scouts are back, then?”

“Yessir!” Wolffe replied and Tibalt resolved to keep him far, far away from her. He had only managed to avoid a decommission because Plo fought for him and had the experience picking fights with Kaminoans to back it up. Wolffe’s track record as an impeccable commander helped, too. At this point, it was not a battle Plo could win. He didn’t have the paperwork to back it up.

In hindsight, Tibalt should be worried less about the little picture and more about the big picture. But… The thing about war was that it left you forgetting about the little people, and when you were in the position  _ he _ was in, you started to realize with the harder choices you made, the more  _ important _ the little people were. War was won with the people it declared expendable.

“Is your battalion ready for the next push, Commander?” Tibalt asked Wolffe, and the commander snapped to attention.

“Yessir!”

Tibalt idly probed around the edges of the other commander’s shields. He hadn’t heard about the chips yet, from what Tibalt could see. Hopefully Grim would get a chance to pull him to the side, get the instructions and diagrams from Butcher to hand off. Distantly, Tibalt spared a thought to worry about Fox, stranded and isolated from the rest of the GAR on Coruscant. Out of all the clones he interacted with, Fox was the most familiar face. Wolffe had evidently been batchmates with him. Though…

Tibalt’s comm beeped and he held it up.

“Beleren,” he said, even though he knew who was calling.

“We located our missing guide, sir, and it’s not good,” Grim’s voice came through, and Wolffe’s emotions took a sharp turn to mildly irritated. The two hadn’t met yet, had they? They  _ shouldn’t _ have, though if they were both CCs… Maybe?

He’d deal with that later.

“Is he down?” Tibalt asked, and there was an awkward pause.

“Yes. Point blank shot to the head. No sign of a fight or struggle, and you know better than me how hard it is to sneak up on a Devaronian. I don’t think regular clankers are that good.”

Tibalt’s livers quivered and he glanced over at Wolffe, who was now frowning, brows furrowed in concern, though there was an undercurrent of derision.  _ Someone _ didn’t get along with Grim. That was going to be a problem, and Plo was apparently noticing.

“Tibalt, you are typically very much plugged into knowledge not privy to the rest of us,” Plo said. “Do you believe they have perhaps updated their targeting systems?”

Well. At least his reputation kept him safe when he knew a bit too much.

“Might be prototypes of commando droids they’re taking for a spin,” he finally settled on. “I’ve been hearing from my contacts about BX droids.”

BX droids  _ first _ became a problem with the Rishi moon base infiltration, but the first time they were noticed was on Devaron. They just weren’t much of a  _ problem _ at that point, because they weren’t being utilized correctly. Asajj Ventress, for all her prowess, just did not have the correct vision needed to command troops to the fullest extent of their abilities. There was a reason she was always charged with solo missions.

“So, we lost our guide already, and we just lost yours,” Wolffe supplied, and Tibalt internally cringed. “Guessing you don’t know your way around Devaron’s jungle, either, General?”

Grim didn’t say anything on the other side of the comm call, but Tibalt got the impression that he was probably biting off the chance to tell Wolffe off.

“I’d say the Force will show us the way,” Tibalt started to say, and Plo gave him a sharp, disappointed look. “What?”

“I do not believe the time is appropriate for casting derision on our abilities, Tibalt,” Plo drawled, and Tibalt crinkled his nose at him.

“Levity is a vital quality in a leader, General Koon,” Tibalt replied sweetly. “Get back to base before they decide to come back around, Grim. We don’t  _ need _ a guide, it’ll just take longer without knowledge of the paths.”

“The guides also knew how to avoid pissing off the local predators,” Wolffe added with a frown. “We still have an hour’s march to reach the capital. We can’t be slowed down by attacks from the wildlife.”

“It’s okay, Commander Wolffe,” Tibalt said with a pointy grin at Plo. “Your general is  _ fantastic _ at making new friends. Almost as good as he is at adopting any unsupervised child he stumbles across.”

_ “Tibalt,” _ Plo hissed, aggrieved and betrayed, but Tibalt just let his grin broaden as Wolffe looked between the two of them in confusion and concern.

“Can’t even let you on a pirate ship without supervision,” Tibalt said, because no one ever dared pick on the unofficial father figure of the Order but him and little Ahsoka Tano, on  _ very _ rare occasions. “You’d force us to start a dozen more creches if you could.”

“We’re three minutes out, General,” Grim cut in, because Tibalt was doing that annoying thing where he started teasing when he should be paying  _ attention, _ and Grim was doing his damndest to redirect his focus.

“Copy that, Grim,” Tibalt said and cut the comm before pulling up the map of potential paths Dirk had left them with. “Alright. Without the guides, things just got a lot more confusing. The fleet is distracted up top, so we can’t expect any air support or gunships, and the wildlife here is hostile at best. Devaronian cities are walled for a reason.”

“We haven’t seen anything yet, sir,” Wolffe pointed out, and Tibalt winced.

“That’s because our guides knew how to  _ avoid _ the more dangerous creatures out here. Namely, guntuns. They’re pack animals, tend to stick to the trees and pull unsuspecting people up into their nests. Devaron jungle guides train their entire lives to pick up and track what little sign they leave, and guntuns are highly aggressive when feeling threatened and  _ very _ territorial. Packs will live in the same area for generations. They’re picky eaters, so hopefully they won’t target clones, because they don’t like eating around plastoid, but all of their prey might have been run off with all the fighting going on, so they might be desperate. Guntuns are known for starving rather than following prey to a new location before they’re damned well ready to move on their own. It’s the only known way to deal with an infestation. Starve them out, because they’re next to impossible to hunt without Jedi reflexes.”

Tibalt spun the map around and circled an area lit up red on the blue holotable.

“Last known nest was  _ here, _ but that’s  _ just _ the nest. We can avoid it, but their hunting area can stretch anywhere from one to two hundred klicks in every direction, which thoroughly cuts us off from the capital. Without the guides, we’ll have no way of knowing when they were last there and if it’s safe to approach.”

Was it too late to trade in shatterpoint for psychometry? Could the Force do that? Force, why did they have to lose the guides  _ right _ when they were outside a guntun nest?

“So we can expect to get picked off by…” Wolffe trailed off as he swiped through his mission briefing datapad and pulled up an image of a guntun, all hunched shoulders and big hands with massive claws, a painfully long neck that could extend to  _ insane _ lengths with rows upon rows of sharp teeth.  _ “That?” _

“Reptilian and primate genetic sequencing. Fun, isn’t it?” Tibalt asked brightly. “Plo and I should be able to sense them coming, but keep your eyes up. They have  _ very _ long necks.”

“No wonder you rarely come back here,” Wolffe muttered, and Plo snorted.

“No, Tibalt here has far less reasonable reasons to rarely return to his home planet,” he said and Tibalt rolled his eyes.

“I’m not good at interpersonal communications. Sue me,” he drawled just as his ears picked up the sound of Grim crashing through the growth and coming out of the jungle. “Grim!”

“Sir!” Grim called, waving a hand at Tibalt, looking decidedly worse for wear, with his helmet firmly stuck on and covered in sap. Wow. That couldn’t be easy on the HUD.

“We were just discussing the guntun,” Tibalt said as Grim dragged himself over and waved off the squad that had come with him. “You read the briefing, right?”

Wolffe was practically radiating disgust in Grim’s general direction, and Tibalt’s commander was apparently doing his very best to ignore him as he gave Tibalt a sharp salute.

“I did, sir!” Grim confirmed as both Plo and Tibalt looked between the two commanders.

“Great, General Koon and I will be spreading out to see if we can sense any near us while you brief Commander Wolffe here,” Tibalt said cheerfully and didn’t miss the sudden drop of quiet resignation in his commander. Tibalt had  _ just _ said he was bad in interpersonal communications, what did Grim expect?

“It would seem we are,” Plo mused as he very clearly did not look between the two clones, instead deciding to gesture for Tibalt to join him.

Whatever was going on between the two of them, Tibalt didn’t need to be there while they figured it out. He had other things to do.

.

.

.

.

.

The generals were far out of the way when Wolffe finally spoke, quiet and angry.

“Surprised you didn’t get decommissioned,” he said shortly.

“That’s a lie. You always knew,” Grim shot back as he spun the map around to get a good, hard look at it. 200 kliks was nothing to sneeze at. Was the nest even still there?

“Your general know?” Wolffe asked bluntly, and Grim grit his teeth as the sap dripped over his sensors and started messing with his visuals. With a tiny growl, he yanked off the helmet and looked around for something to wipe it off with.

“I was  _ eight, _ Wolffe,” he grunted out before he considered the pros and cons of making a mess out of his kama.

“That’s old enough to know better. Did 17 not tell the longnecks?”

“If you must know,  _ no. _ Just got very close to it until I straightened up,” Grim snapped. “Again.  _ Eight. _ ”

Eight was the clone equivalent of Human standard sixteen. Grim, personally, thought Wolffe could give him a break. Everyone else had. Even Cody didn’t hold it against him when he’d been shuffled into another batch and given a fresh start. Wolffe was the only one still pissed at him, sans Fox, but Fox was Fox. No one could hold a grudge like that bastard.

“You gonna abandon your general when things get hard like you left us?” Wolffe asked, point blank, and Grim’s eye twitched as he gave up and wiped his helmet on his kama, smearing sticky, foul smelling sap everywhere.

“I’m  _ ten _ now, of course I’m not,” he almost growled, but he couldn’t really be mad at Wolffe for holding it against him, could he? If no one else got a choice, why should Grim?

“I hope for your sake, you won’t, because my general happens to  _ like _ him,” Wolffe snarled, and  _ stars, _ Wolffe had always been embarrassingly overprotective over  _ anything _ he had been told to guard. Grim sure as hell hoped he wasn’t going to have to go through that with Tibalt, because General Koon seemed a lot more containable than Tibalt.

“Careful,” Grim grit out. “You wouldn’t want to be labeled feral again.”

“Just make sure you remember where you belong,” Wolffe said bluntly before his eyes swept up to take in the sight of the fresh pink scar on Grim’s temple. The other commander’s brows furrowed at the sight, and Grim realized he must not have seen anyone in Alpha Company take off their buckets yet. “How the hell did you take a head injury and not get decommissioned?”

“It wasn’t a head injury,” Grim replied, and Wolffe’s suspicious eyes narrowed even more as he took a step forward. Grim took an instinctive step back, and Wolffe paused, almost looking hurt before he remembered who Grim was and what he’d done.

“You haven’t seen any combat until now,” he said rather than acknowledge the awkwardness, and Grim jammed his helmet back on.

“I saw Geonosis,” he said bluntly.

“And you didn’t get  _ hurt. _ I would have heard.”

“I’m sure,” Grim drawled in a tone that implied that he did not, in fact, think Wolffe cared enough to keep an ear out, and turned back to the holo map in front of him. “Generals said to brief you. Let me brief you.”

He should tell Wolffe about it. He really  _ should, _ but Wolffe was… Well. The 508th had two weeks before getting sent to the surface to adjust to the knowledge, and Grim wasn’t stupid enough to deliver world shattering information to someone when they were supposed to be worrying about dodging headshots. It could  _ wait. _ Once they took the capital, Grim would tell him, and whoever his CMO was. Speaking of… He needed to check on Butcher. He’d been a wreck ever since he got deployed to the surface, worrying about all the pilots and clones up top and how well Hazer could handle without him telling him what to do.

Wolffe was angry. He generally  _ was _ angry with Grim, almost as much as Fox was. Grim couldn’t blame him, but he  _ really _ hadn’t needed this for his first mission where he was moderately in charge of things.

“You been talking to the other batchmates?” Wolffe asked, and Grim grit his teeth.

“I’m  _ briefing _ you, Wolffe.”

“I already read the brief. I’m pretty sure they can just tell I want to knock you on your shebs.”

“Well, you’ve had two years to get over it,” Grim bit out. “And I already apologized.”

“But you didn’t mean it.” Wolffe was quietly angry, and he had never been all that good at holding back when he had someone in front of him to lay into. It was a character flaw, really, and he held a grudge better than the Prime, which was saying something.

“Wolffe, is now  _ really _ the time to be worrying about this? We’re about to go into a guntan nest and  _ you’re _ worried over the stupid osik I did when I was eight,” Grim snapped, half tempted to just stalk away from his batchmate and leave him here until the generals came back. He couldn’t  _ work _ like this. The  _ least _ Wolffe could do for everyone is put the hatchet aside until they had time to bury it  _ after _ all of this, when they could afford to get over-emotional behind closed doors.

“That stupid osik you did ended with you being taken away from all of us rather than deal with your problems because  _ you _ were spoiled,” Wolffe snarled, and Grim let his upper lip curl back.

“ _ I _ was removed because  _ you _ and  _ Fox _ could not  _ focus _ with me still around and were going to get someone  _ killed. _ Namely, me.”

“And if you hadn’t done what you  _ did, _ it wouldn’t have  _ gotten _ to that point,” Wolffe snapped, and Grim considered the pros and cons of fighting him right here.

“And if  _ you _ hadn’t used me as  _ droidbait _ in sims, we wouldn’t have gotten to the point where 17 thought I  _ needed _ to be removed. We are in the middle of a campaign and you’re picking a fight. Suck it up and if we  _ have to, _ we can talk about it when this is  _ over. _ ”

Stars, he would have to be the one to  _ tell _ Wolffe about the chips. That definitely wasn’t going to go over well. At least Butcher and Commander Offee had figured out how to remove without scarring after removing a good chunk of Alpha’s chips. Wolffe at least wouldn’t be scarred like Grim was.

“Yeah, you always were good at avoiding confrontation, weren’t you?” Wolffe said derisively, and Grim inhaled sharply through his nose before exhaling, smooth and slow.

“I am not  _ avoiding _ confrontation. We are in the middle of a  _ campaign, _ and I am  _ expecting _ you to behave maturely enough to put this aside until we are  _ done. _ ”

Wolffe fell silent, angry and hitting his boiling point with no outlet to let off the steam. Grim knew how this worked. It  _ always _ worked this way, and this time around, they had no Bly to settle things between them. Grim danced around a topic until he got his thoughts together, ran off to hide until he wound back down,  _ avoided _ confrontation, if that was how Wolffe wanted to put it, until his thoughts were in order and he could approach something with a level head. Wolffe, however, wanted confrontation right here, right now, and he  _ wanted _ the last word. There was no  _ waiting, _ no calming down. He was going to ream someone out, and he was going to do it right  _ now. _

But they couldn’t do things Wolffe’s way, because right now they were in the middle of the first karking campaign of the war, and their vode needed to see a  _ united front. _ Not whatever Wolffe felt like doing. They definitely couldn’t see the new commander ripping into the one who had been here for  _ weeks. _

Wolffe was silent, and Grim stood there patiently, angry and tense as he waited for Wolffe to wade past the temper and settle down. Of course, Wolffe had every reason to be pissed with Grim. If he wanted to hold a grudge for the rest of his life, that was  _ his _ business. But it wasn’t the business of the thousands of men they had to keep alive, nor  _ could _ it affect them.

For all that Grim had been a coward, he had always been better at compartmentalizing. It was probably the side effect of hiding how defective he was for so many years.

“You never told me why you did it,” Wolffe finally said, and Grim pursed his lips under his helmet.

“You never asked,” he settled on and turned back to the holotable. “Let’s get started.”

Wolffe didn’t take that as an opportunity to press. Grim could live with that. They both knew whatever excuse Grim had would only piss him off even more. It was easier this way.

Some things just couldn’t be helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will preface this by saying I actually adore Wolffe. He's easily in my top three CCs. But also this is Wolffe at the VERY beginning of the war and he canonically has a temper and hasn't had a whole lot of time to mature. Don't worry: he'll work it out with Grim soon!!
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

Wolffe had a lot of feelings, on a regular basis, and it was fairly rare that they were _positive_ feelings. He knew they tended to interfere with his duty, and he knew he needed to work better on keeping them under control, but _honestly._ He was _trying._ It was just that Grim was…

Well. Grim was Grim. And nothing could get his temper up quite like Grim could. It had been a good year and a half since he’d last seen him, and he _knew_ Cody and Bly kept in contact with him, but it hadn’t really _registered_ until today that Grim was still out there, still alive, had lasted to face this war with them.

Grim, who had tried to run away, and came back, and had to be separated from them because he refused to tell them _why,_ and that had never been good enough for Fox and Wolffe. They needed _answers,_ and Grim just would not bend. Cody probably knew. All Wolffe knew was that Prime and Alpha-17 were involved, and there had been some disagreements, and when Fox and Wolffe kept acting up over several months, Prime had simply swept Grim away and not told them where he went.

Gree had reached out to Cody a month later and confirmed that he hadn’t been decommissioned, just been adopted by _his_ batch, with Keeli and Rizz and Doom, and no one brought it up around Wolffe and Fox again. Fox just asked _questions,_ demanded _answers,_ and when he didn’t get them he just got _worse._ That was partially why he’d been assigned to Coruscant. He dug and dug and dug and when Grim failed to bend he snapped. The betrayal of a desertion was bad enough. The fact that Grim wouldn’t trust them with the _why_ was even worse, and Fox could not handle it, and Wolffe had stoked the fire.

Prime and Alpha had their reasons for keeping Grim around. Wolffe knew that. And he _should_ be able to respect it, but…

That didn’t lessen the betrayal. The fact that Grim was going to abandon his duty and _leave them._ It wasn’t just duty to Coruscant. It was duty to his _vode._

And now, of course, Wolffe was stuck with him on their first damn campaign and being forced to act like everything was okay. He really did not like that. Not at all. Especially with Grim asserting that Wolffe had never _asked._ Sure, they hadn't been _nice_ about it, but there had been quite a lot of demands back in those days, and now those ugly memories were getting dragged back to the surface. Which was _awful_ for timing, because now they were marching back through the jungle, crouched down and miserable because it had started to rain and visibility was utter osik, and he was stuck with the advance party because two Jedi were better than one if they were going to end up as a meal or need to clean out a nest of guntuns so the rest of the legions could advance.

The Jedi in question weren’t looking too hot. The clones had their armor to mostly keep them dry, but the Jedi were just in robes and minimal body armor. Honestly, they should be wearing _more._ Beleren seemed fine, but Wolffe’s general looked like a drowned cat.

It was still taking a lot to get used to how they _moved._ All the people Wolffe had grown up around moved like they _knew_ they could snap a Zabrak’s neck with minimal effort, of course. He _thought_ before all of this that he knew how a predator moved, but Jedi were something else entirely when they were on high alert. He knew, objectively, that Devaronians, Humans, _and_ Kel Dor were all species with bones, but it didn’t _feel_ like it. Normally, General Koon moved very smoothly, very calmly, silent but not all that alarming. This, though…

He obviously was familiar with General Beleren, and Wolffe recalled the easy camaraderie between the two of them. General Koon seemed very fond of him, like he was a beloved nephew, and had already packed up a spare tunic before he even commed Beleren, so obviously he was aware of his bad habits. Word through the 508th was that Beleren had a habit of letting his clothes catch fire. Apparently, _several_ vode had already developed crushes on the tiny general. Wolffe personally didn’t see the appeal, but to each their own.

Even so. Watching them move was _unnerving._ Liquid and mercurial, predators slipping through the jungle. Beleren was descended from carnivores, and apparently didn’t take to his omnivore side very well, but he was pretty sure Kel Dor _were_ omnivores. General Koon shouldn’t _move_ like that, and getting used to it was difficult. Wolffe felt like if he blinked they’d disappear.

It didn’t help that Grim was _distracting._ He’d already painted his helmet with a spiderweb, and had Beleren’s horns on his vambrace like the rest of Alpha Company. Wolffe had been on Geonosis, too, but he felt brand new and untested next to Grim. It had been nearly two years, but…

A year and a half didn’t erase nearly a decade of being batchmates, and Wolffe _knew_ there was something different about Grim. Something changed. There was tension and tightly coiled pressure all around the 508th, and while he could dismiss it as the campaign, something told him there was something else going on. They were all weirdly protective of their general, in a way he didn’t quite understand. He knew the sign of a twitchy vod, and all of them seemed loath to let Beleren out of their sights, Grim most of all.

General Koon had been fine so far. Wolffe felt decently protective of him, decently attached, but from the way that squad was surrounding General Beleren and not letting any of his own men near… Well, Grim could complain about battlefield distractions all he wanted, but the caginess was going to be a _problem._

Especially with low visibility like this.

It _would_ be like Grim to ignore battlefield distractions when it didn’t fit _his_ narrative.

The capital wasn’t far away, at least. They’d been marching for a good forty-five minutes, and so far there had been no sign of the guntuns, but Wolffe was not about to let his guard down. Once they got into urban warfare and could split up the generals Alpha Company’s vaguely rabid protectiveness wouldn’t be a problem. Wolffe had his own general to look after. General Beleren seemed pretty nice, if a bit feral, but he wasn’t _General Koon._

“Hold,” General Beleren suddenly called from the front and held up a fist, and the vode all collectively came to a halt. General Koon and Beleren exchanged glances, and Beleren started to reach for the hilt on his hip, and in an instant Wolffe tensed, lifting his blasters---

The crack and scream was _loud_ and _terrifying._ Wolffe nearly jumped out of his skin at the blur of brown and gray descending on the poor vod from Alpha, but then Beleren was _moving,_ vaulting off Grim like a piece of furniture and flying through the air with a blaze of green lighting up the air around them. A single slash and the head and vod hit the ground and Beleren dropped, rolling forward and coming up in a crouch.

“Get _down!_ ” He hollered as Wolffe tried to process just _what_ happened, but his body knew how to listen to commands, and he hit the ground as General Koon ignited his saber and leapt through the air, slicing off a head as Beleren collided with a head going for Wolffe’s sergeant, forcing it to yank back up into the trees with him in tow far, far above. Screeches and roars filled the air, followed by hisses and _thunks_ as heads hit the ground. Wolffe risked a glance up to take in the sight of flashes of green and a dark figure skipping and dancing among the branches as General Koon stayed safely on the ground to protect the company, saber hissing and spitting through the air. Wolffe wanted to get up and fire, but he could _barely_ see these things move at all, and if the general wanted them _down,_ that probably meant they would only get underfoot.

A head of more teeth than flesh hit the ground _right_ next to him, and Wolffe stared in horror at the thing as he tried to process just how this thing _existed,_ soaked in the gently pattering rain and staring at him with four wide, wide eyes, caught mid screech in death.

It was over in seconds. Between two Jedi, the guntuns never stood a chance, and the silence of the rain reigned. Wolffe hadn’t even gotten a shot off. A coiling tension spread out, and he found himself worrying he was breathing too loudly.

A body dropped down next to Wolffe and General Beleren straightened up, scarcely even rumpled, a lazy grin on his face.

“I think I got more than you, Plo,” he said teasingly, and the tension was broken as Wolffe carefully, _so_ carefully sat back up and looked around at the smoking bodies and heads.

He’d really thought the guntuns would be a bigger problem than this.

“That was reckless, little Tibalt,” General Koon chided, and Beleren stretched lazily, a wide smile on his lips, eminently pleased with himself.

“Effective.”

“If your commander sees fit to lock you in the medbay and throw away the key, I will not stop him.”

For a second, Wolffe almost forgot he was mad at Grim, instead opting to pity the poor man. It was going to be a hell of a long war for his batchmate if he was stuck with a Jedi that hitched rides with local wildlife. _If_ the Jedi in question managed to survive. At least _Wolffe’s_ general had stayed on the ground, where Wolffe had visual contact.

“I wouldn’t stop him, either,” Beleren said boldly. “Butcher is _great_ company. Better than Grim, at least.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re afraid of medics, General,” Grim said stiffly, and Beleren waved him off.

“Now that we’re done making friends, let’s get moving,” Beleren said, like Grim hadn’t just been _blatantly_ insubordinate to his face. Wolffe remembered him having more self preservation than that.

No, that wasn’t it. Grim used to be more _scared_ than that. Of everyone and everything. The war had started _two weeks_ ago. What the hell had happened that turned that anxious, doom and gloom cadet into _this?_ Mouthing off to a general?

Wolffe’s eyes caught on the way Grim reached for his general, brushed over his pauldron and checked his armor with more touch than was strictly necessary, like he was making sure he was still in one piece, and something uncomfortable twisted in his gut at the lack of reaction in Alpha Company. Vode touched each other like that when a simulation or training mission had been more intense than it should have been. When they weren’t sure if someone was going to come out _alive,_ even for a brief flash of a moment.

Grim shouldn’t be touching a general like that. Checking the straps on his armor, investigating him for injury before he stepped back with a firm, sure nod.

Wolffe wasn’t sure how to feel about that. But…

Pissed at Grim or not, he still wanted to _protect_ him. So maybe he’d just keep an eye on the situation.

.

.

.

.

.

He should have _known_ to distrust the general when he insisted on separating from General Koon when they breached the capital. He should have _known_ Tibalt had ulterior motives in sending General Koon and Wolffe to the other side of the city, and then told him to keep his HUD footage backed up. The next time Tibalt grinned at him with those _aggravatingly_ sharp teeth and told him ‘just in case’, Grim was going to be kicking up a fuss.

Because what the _hells_ were these droids and who was this pissed off Dathomirian woman trying to take Tibalt’s head off? Why was she _flirting_ with him? And _who told his general it was okay to fight like that?_

Grim was preoccupied with putting bolts in the heads of the assassin droids swarming them, but there was an effort to keep an eye on the brilliant flashes of red and blue on the edge of his vision. Tibalt _had_ to be suicidal. There was no other explanation, and Grim _would_ be providing his helmet cam, because this was _not_ okay, and General Koon _was_ going to hear about it.

The scent of smoke was invading his air filters as he popped up from behind his cover and let off another shot, dropping a droid with a smoking hole in its head, and he scrambled back down as Tibalt ripped up a thick piece of rubble and sent it hurdling at the pissed off Nightsister that was gaining no ground against him.

“General Beleren,” she purred through grit teeth, “that’s no way to treat a _lady._ ”

“Exceptional that you fall just short of qualifying, then,” Tibalt called and leapt forward, saber very much _not on and functioning,_ and she took a swing at him, blazing red blades threatening to lob his head off. Grim’s heart _leapt_ in his throat, but Tibalt’s hand was already flexing, letting the hilt spin around his palm once with unnecessary flourish before he wrapped his fingers around it and it ignited at the last possible second, catching her two blades for just the _barest_ of moments before he cut the power and dropped under her swing, letting her stumble forward as he dropped to his knees and slid, the saber igniting again to slash behind him and just _barely_ glance her thigh before she got a chance to deflect him.

The woman let out an angry screech and spun, lashing out to kick _Grim’s karking general_ right in the _head,_ and he took it, hitting the ground and rolling to his feet. The hilt flipped around in his palm again, and Grim had a hard time not being mesmerized by the fluidity of the motion, the saber now backhanded across his forearm. Tibalt dropped into a low guard before launching off again, switching with _far_ too much ease from speed to raw _power,_ a swing and a twist of his body driving the saber up, up, up, and she barely managed to block before stumbling back, overwhelmed by the force of the blow. Then Tibalt took a deep breath and a shockwave from seemingly _nowhere_ blasted from his twisted body, sending her flying back, and he locked purple eyes on Grim.

“Secure the royal family!” He ordered, his voice strong and unwavering, and Grim darted forward as Bolts and Nuts laid down covering fire. Yacht, Gambit, Tin, and Rumple bolted behind him to the door as the final assassin droids fell, and Grim keyed it open to slip through and slam it shut once again.

“Blast the lock,” he ordered, his head spinning at the sheer _power_ Tibalt was displaying in his combat, but this was neither the time nor the place to get stuck on it. He had a royal family to rescue. They were now in the living quarters, and the family was holed up somewhere on this wing, from their last distress call. “Clear the area. Check every room until we locate them.”

It was a _large_ palace, and this was not going to be _easy,_ but he was heartened at the sight of blasted and shredded droids. From the briefing, there was a Queen, a Royal Consort, two Princesses, a Prince, and a Princet, as well as the Royal Guard and however many assistants and servants they had running rampant. Evidently, they _could_ handle themselves, as combat arts were very much a part of the Devaronian tradition, but they were being overrun when the siege started.

The five vode made their way down the halls, keying open the doors to reveal deserted quarters, and Grim’s concern rose as they got further into the wing, the bodies of guards growing in number as they picked their way through the aftermath of the carnage.

“The general really _is_ a hybrid, ain’t he?” Gamble mused as they past the smoking remains of a male Devaronian, big and hulking and very much _not_ like the only male Devaronian they knew.

“He wouldn’t be able to fit in that tiny starfighter otherwise,” Grim said dryly, and Gamble huffed into his vocoder.

“If you say so, sir, but I think he’d make an effort anyways.”

“Clear,” Rumple called from the front of the hall, and then the medic froze, his helmet pointed down and at a crumpled Devaronian guard. Without a word, he went to his knee, and Grim perked up at the sight, rushing forward and coming next to the medic.

“She alive?” He asked as he poked his head down the crossroads they’d come to.

“Yessir,” Rumple replied as he slung off his medpack and got to work on the unconscious Devaronian with a hole in her gut. “Barely, but I think I can stabilize her.”

“Her Maje…” The guard breathed out, her eyelids fluttering weakly, and Grim took off his helmet to go down on one knee next to her as Rumple peeled off her armor and sliced open the deep purple guard uniform.

“Sir, do you know where the royal family is?” Grim asked, and the woman let out a tiny whimper of pain, her hand latching onto his and clutching tightly as Rumple did his best to preserve her modesty in the presence of several Human males.

“Bolt hole,” she breathed, her eyes focusing and unfocusing. “You…” A racking cough, a hush from Rumple, “really are… clones?”

“Yessir,” Grim confirmed as Rumple mixed up a bacta concoction for a Devaronian and slowly filled a syringe. “Where’s the bolt hole?”

“Sir, she can’t be moved,” Rumple whispered as he ran a scanner over her before doing his best to disinfect skin around the cauterized hole in her stomach.

“Royal…” Another rattling cough, but she had a death grip on his hand, so he wasn’t too worried, “Consort’s quarters…”

“Sir, I need you to take a deep breath on the count of three,” Rumple said as he flicked at the thick syringe. “I’m out of painkillers and need to put this in the wound. Ready?”

The guard nodded tightly, and Grim waved his free hand for the team to scatter to stand watch while Rumple finished his job.

“One…” Rumple didn’t wait, plunging the syringe in and depressing it to fill the inside of the wound with bacta. The guard inhaled sharply, a harsh breath that sounded more smoke than air, and Grim tried not to wince in sympathy as Rumple pulled out the syringe and grabbed a bacta patch to slap over the wound and cover it.

“Sorry, sir. Find it’s easier when you’re not ready for it,” he said as he made sure the patch was sealed. “This should help a little with the pain.”

“Thank you,” the guard said tightly, too tired and hurting to be pissed, and slowly relaxed her grip on Grim’s hand. She was… _really_ young. It was almost unnerving. Then again, they had to look pretty young to her, too.

“How do we get to the bolt hole?” Grim asked, and she took a deep, shuddering breath, her soft brown eyes swimming in pain. She looked… a lot like Tibalt in that moment.

“The mantle spins when you…” A cough, more of a hack, and Rumple put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, when you tug on the… Left wall scone.”

“Thank you, sir,” Grim said and gave Rumple a glance, who shook his head no. She couldn’t come with them, and they couldn’t leave her.

“Rumple, stay with her. The general should…” Was left with a _very_ dangerous woman, but he had to hold out hope. “Should finish soon, threat level low, but try to find cover.”

“Yessir,” Rumple said and Grim stood, trusting Rumple to keep her safe and secure in their absence. Now, according to the map, the Royal Consort’s rooms were… Right down the hall and to the left.

“We’ll be back for you two,” Grim promised and jammed his helmet back on his head, checking his blasters to make sure the charges were still high. Good enough. “Move out.”

The remaining vode swept behind him and they crept down the hall. The wing was cleared, but caution wasn’t a _bad_ thing. Grim lifted his DC-17s close to his chest, inching down the hall and to the Royal Consort’s bedchambers. It explained a _lot_ about Tibalt that he came from a species whose royalty had spooky and dramatic, but surprisingly effective secret tunnels in their palaces. It actually explained a _lot._

Silently, he swept down the hall and keyed open the door, swinging in to double check the room and make sure it was empty before waving his squad forward with an all-clear sign. Satisfied that the opulent rooms held no threat, he strode through the sitting room towards the mantle, reaching up to tug on the wall scone. There was a click, and then a rumble, and Grim stepped back, blasters lifted as the mantle swung out and to the right to reveal a brightly lit and maintained tunnel of metal.

“I was expecting cobwebs,” Tin commented from behind him, and Grim snorted.

“What did we say about expectations, vod?” He asked as he carefully nudged into the tunnel, wary of traps yet unsprung. Nothing happened, and he let out a breath of relief.

“Expectations are for CCs, sir,” Tin called in a singsong voice, and Grim rolled his eyes.

“That’s not what we say, but fine. Check your insubordination, vod.” He didn’t mean it in the slightest.

“Yessir!” There were a couple of chuckles behind him, and Grim ignored it as he swept down the brightly lit and sloped hallway, pausing at the top of a spiral staircase.

“Kriff,” Grim muttered, knowing _damn_ well the set up put him at a disadvantage as the descending party. They had gone over spiral staircases in practical combat classes. It didn’t help that they would have to go down single file. “Staircase, vode. Behind me.”

The men fell into formation behind him, and Grim inched down the staircase, vaguely unsettled by the whole thing, his blasters held at the ready. The lack of evidence of a fight in this staircase was of little comfort. For all they knew, they’d get attacked on the spot as enemy combatants.

Even so, he had a job to do, and the _last_ thing Devaron needed after a Separatist incursion was a power vacuum. The royal family _had_ to stay seated. There could be no question as to where they were or if they’d survived. Which meant Grim had the responsibility of delivering them safely to their people so they could pick up the pieces. He _had_ to do this. He could not fail his general. He couldn’t fail the Republic.

Which meant dealing with creepy spiral staircases and not having Tibalt in his immediate vicinity for the first time this entire campaign. He felt a bit like an empty nester. Or like he’d been misplaced in a store by a parent. Both of them at once, perhaps? Either way, he wasn’t happy about this development, but he had to get used to it. He _had_ to.

A deep, grounding breath, and then Grim pressed on, carefully stepping down the staircase, which seemed to go on for _ages_ and _ages._ It would have been _nice_ if they included this in the schematics they gave them. They were here to _stabilize_ the incursion and route the Separatist invasion, and that included knowing where the _kriff_ the royal family was.

“... These stairs ever gonna end?” Yacht asked nervously, and Grim reflected that this would be a _lot_ easier to deal with if this staircase wasn’t so brightly lit. It seemed _wrong._

“If the chatter’s not relevant, keep it to yourselves, gentlemen,” Grim growled, and Yacht let out a nervous chuckle.

“I’m just saying, sir, this staircase doesn’t seem to be _stopping._ ”

“It’ll stop when it sto---” Grim cut himself off and pulled up short at the sound of a plop of liquid. “Hold.”

The three men behind him came to a halt, and Grim tilted his head, half tempted to take off his helmet so he could hear better. There it was again. A _plop._ Uncomfortably cold and _wet_ air rushed up at them, and Grim belatedly realized why this staircase was taking so long to get where it was going. It went beneath the palace and into some kind of cave network. _Great._ After the guntuns, he didn’t hold out a lot of hope that caves on this planet would be friendly.

“Sounds like a cave below, boys,” he said and crept a few more steps down. “Be ready to turn on headlights.”

“Yessir,” they intoned behind him, and they continued with their long, quiet, cold march. At least they’d be getting out of the heat. It was a small comfort. They didn’t have a map of the caves, so he _really_ hoped the royal family would just be at the bottom, sitting tight, and not anywhere he couldn’t locate them, because _that_ would be difficult to explain to the Devaronian senator. ‘Sorry, we misplaced your royal family in the caves no one told us was under the palace, they probably starved.’

Yeah, no need to make his general’s life harder.

The sound of dripping water steadily got louder as they made their way down the spiraling staircase, which was giving him a headache at this point, not that he was going to complain. It smelled wet, no, _damp,_ and the steady ‘plop-plop-plop’ had an echoing quality that confirmed his assertions. There _was_ a cave, and he was trying _very_ hard to not think about what might be living in that cave. Hopefully just one displaced royal family and a couple of guards that managed to survive.

He _hoped_ the guards managed to survive. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like for the young guard he’d seen to be the last one standing.

Finally, _finally,_ the spiral staircase abruptly stopped, and a hall led down to the end, opening up to a brightly lit area with a cluster of Devaronians in torn fine, but practical robes, huddled around a heat lamp. One male Devaronian in the same dark purple he’d seen on the bodies upstairs stood up, blaster lifting before he stilled.

“GAR?” He called, and a petulant teenage girl in delicately cut robes that brushed her knees came to her feet, her hair in a mess and lower lip thrusted out in a pout as she crossed her arms and braced her feet and _ohhhh noooo…_

“Where is _my_ Jedi?” She asked imperiously, and Grim blinked, slow and sure under his helmet.

Ah. That was why Tibalt hated this planet. He should have known.

“We’re with the GAR.”

  
What was it with Tibalt and _women?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at those shiny new tags...
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

“Commander Grim!” Tibalt called, waving his hand exuberantly at the commander, who looked to be caught in a heated conversation with one of his captains, and the commander looked up with a blink. At Tibalt’s wide, disarming smile, his face fell, and he took a step back in anticipation for whatever hell Tibalt was going to be putting him through today.

_Honestly,_ was Tibalt not trustworthy?

“Hello, Grim!” Tibalt said cheerfully nonetheless, jogging up to his commander with a certain box full of chips bouncing against his thigh. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nothing important, sir,” Grim replied stiffly, though his lips were being tugged down. “Just some complaints from the quartermaster about the relief supplies getting mixed up with our supplies.”

“Have him send the reports over to me and I’ll see if I can’t get someone on it,” Tibalt said. “Senator Organa is on his way with more supplies from Alderaan.”

Grim’s eye twitched at the thought of interacting with politicians, and Tibalt allowed himself to feel, very briefly, _marginally_ guilty for what he was about to do.

“Anyways, Commander,” Tibalt said and looped his arm through Grim’s with a blase attitude, shooting him his best disarming smile that Grim had already learned to distrust, “you took diplomacy courses as a CC, didn’t you?”

Grim’s eye twitched again as the captain looked between the two of them and abruptly decided to make himself scarce without so much as a by-your-leave. Smart vod.

“I did, sir,” Grim confirmed begrudgingly, and Tibalt turned him through the temporary barracks where three companies were being housed in the palace and towards the door.

“Wonderful! I feel a disturbance in the Force that _must_ be seen to, so I’ll need you to, ah, keep Princess Kythia preoccupied,” Tibalt said brightly, and Grim immediately pulled up short in a metaphorical showing of digging in his heels.

_“Sir,”_ he protested, the most aggrieved Tibalt had ever heard from him, but Tibalt wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“I need to go into the _city,_ Commander Grim; I can’t have her tagging along,” Tibalt said. “C7 and I have some investigating to do.”

“I almost failed diplomacy,” Grim said, as a last ditch effort, and Tibalt couldn’t help but _relate_ to the poor guy. He’d seen him take out seven commando droids in a row with headshots, but dealing with an irate and pining princess was not something _anyone_ wanted to do.

“You did not; I’ve seen all of your marks from training. You were consistently at the top for anything that didn’t have to do with math,” Tibalt said firmly, which was actually precisely why they had been paired together. Tibalt had below average marks on anything to do with art and history, unless it was _Sith_ history, because he was training to be a Shadow and he had to be good at that sort of thing, but excelled in anything to do with mathematics. _Especially_ astro navigation.

“You cannot be using the _Force_ as an excuse to get away from her,” Grim complained as Tibalt keyed open the door and pulled them through.

“Well, it’s not like _you_ can prove me wrong,” Tibalt said slyly, and Grim’s mouth opened, shut, opened again, and then he blanched.

“That was a low blow, sir.”

“I need to find my slicer,” Tibalt admitted, and Grim paused.

“... You’ll be back in time for that dinner they wanted us for?” He confirmed suspiciously, and Tibalt simply _beamed._

“I will!”

“Not a minute late?”

“I would _never._ ”

“And you’re taking Cee for backup?”

“Of course I am!”

“... Fine. You’ll comm or send a distress signal if something happens?”

“If something happens that I can’t han---”

_“If something happens?”_

There was a flicker of panic from Grim, and Tibalt belatedly realized they had scarcely been separated since this entire thing started. He didn’t like Tibalt going where he couldn’t follow, and _oh,_ this is why there had been so many issues with attachment during the war. What could Tibalt say in the face of that?

“If I need you, I know you’ll be there,” Tibalt said, half for himself, but mostly because Grim needed the reassurance that he would both _behave_ and that he had complete faith in his commander.

Some knot at the center of Grim’s being relaxed, and Tibalt let go of him as Cee rolled around the corner of the hallway, trilling loudly at him with every opinion she had on their fraternization, and _Force,_ he hoped they didn’t teach them binary on Kamino.

“Alright, sir. I expect you back soon,” Grim said stiffly, and then something cold passed over his being, tasting distinctly like dread. “I will… Keep the princess occupied.”

“She enjoys holoromances,” Tibalt said dryly. “The more daring and dashing the leading man, the more attention she gets. I’m sure you can keep her entertained.”

“I was trained for _war,_ General,” Grim complained, and Tibalt laughed, hopping back a few steps to come parallel with his droid and send off a lazy, two fingered salute before he turned lazily, his sleeveless cloak swaying jauntily.

“Consider it training in psychological warfare, General!” Tibalt called. “I’ll be back soon!”

With that, he jogged around the corner of the hall and left Grim to his own devices. He had about ten minutes before the princess went hunting for him, and he planned on being out of the palace at that point if at all possible.

_“He is pretty and puts up with you,”_ Cee mentioned, and Tibalt let out a long-suffering sigh as he flicked up his hood and ducked out onto a nearby balcony.

“He puts up with me because that’s his _job,_ Cee,” Tibalt snapped as he hopped onto the banister and looked down at her. “Am I throwing you or will you _actually_ use your thrusters?”

His _unpaid_ job, as it was. Tibalt and Bail had agreed this time around Bail would kick up even more of a fuss than last time in the Senate about that. Tibalt _also_ wasn’t paid, but that was by _choice,_ so there was a difference, thank you very kindly. He barely had an expenditure account for food, and the clones didn’t even have _that_ much. Bail was already fighting for them to have spending money allotted for shore leave.

_“You almost didn’t catch me last time,”_ Cee accused, and Tibalt snorted as he looked down at the drop and eyed it. The courtyard was a _long_ ways down, but he’d seen worse.

“Then use your thrusters for once in your life,” Tibalt shot back and leapt.

The ground rushed up at him in a dizzying array, hot and fast and he’d _completely_ forgotten Devaron had a slightly denser gravity than Coruscant until he dropped like this. Hundreds of meters soared up at him and he landed hard, rolling forward to catch himself in an uncharacteristic display of vertigo. Thrusters fired behind him as Tibalt came to his feet and dusted off his robe, checked his hood, and Cee landed behind him with a bright little chirp that didn’t mean much of anything except glee at getting to fly.

It didn’t take much to slip out. The guards were well accustomed to his attempts to maintain diplomatic relations _while_ refusing to cavort about with a lovelorn princess, and he only got a few amused glances as he slipped out the front gates with the little astromech on his heels.

_“Should I calibrate my scanners?”_ Cee asked, and Tibalt rolled his eyes as he hurried through the torn apart city.

“You can sense life forms. I doubt you can differentiate species. Don’t worry; the Force will lead me.”

_“That does not sound like a very accurate method of tracking,”_ Cee replied dubiously, and Tibalt snorted.

“Just because it’s not _accurate_ doesn’t mean it’s not _effective._ I go exactly where I’m meant to be. No more, no less.” The _timing_ could be better sometimes, but he would take what he was given and thank the Force he got that much.

Even if there _was_ some lingering bitterness over Geonosis. He’d release that in time. It felt a bit like a sacrifice, and he was uncomfortable with the idea of sacrifice. Even _if_ his master would have given up his life gladly if it meant Tibalt would be free to do his duty to the galaxy. But…

There could have been ways around it, right?

He shouldn’t be thinking like that. That was going to take him to a dark place, and _fast._

_“Could you at least be so kind as to tell me what species we are looking for?”_ Cee asked politely, and Tibalt tucked his hands into his pockets as he strolled through an alley like he somehow belonged there. In another life, he _had._

“Yes. We’re looking for a Mirialan woman with a Devaronian female. The Mirialan’s facial tattoos will be over her eyebrows, and the Devaronian will be red like me with black hair and Mirialan marriage tattoos. They won’t be that much older than me, actually. Ceit is from my grandfather’s… third marriage, I want to say? Anyways, she’s only six years older than me.”

Even less now, factoring in the time traveling, but Tibalt wasn’t keen on programming Cee to keep his secrets when he could just keep them to himself. It seemed unnecessarily rude and invasive. As it was, they already had a contentious disagreement over memory wipes. Most did the flat memory wipe for military droids; Tibalt was a little more cautious with going through her memory core once a week to remove Republic secrets. She didn’t _like_ it, and neither did he, but rules could be broken by Skywalker. All Tibalt could do was bend them. He didn’t exactly _have_ the privileges Skywalker enjoyed so much.

Force, he had only met Ceit a handful of times this go around. This was going to be awkward, but he _knew_ Ceit and Aelia. When Ceit, who was most certainly _not_ a smuggler, had stumbled across Tibalt and realized he was undercover as one of the most notorious pirates in the Outer Rim, she had kept his secret and kept it well. She’d even gone so far as to act like she didn’t know him when his parents accidentally tripped over his operation and didn’t recognize him. Not that they _would;_ they were under the impression that the child they had misplaced was an entirely separate gender. And he had been practically not a toddler when he had been removed from their care, but that was neither here nor there.

He could still recognize their Force signatures, at least. Ceit was mildly Force sensitive, nothing _excessive,_ too low to become a Jedi. But he knew what she smelled like. Her signature was freshly polished leather boots and the scent of oil and the smoke from a blaster in the aftermath of the jungle rain. A lovelorn scent, old and timeless in the best of ways.

Everyone experienced the Force in different ways. For some, the galaxy was a vast quiet, with images and shapes and heat. The world was a strange blend of cracked transparisteel and the scents that slipped through for him personally, both visual and _not._ He couldn’t put it into words, the way he pushed through the solid forms of the shatterpoints that surrounded him as if they were simply not there, only deigning to notice them when they might be useful. His Force perception was useful for tracking. Not quite as useful as psychometry, but useful all the same, which was why he took to being a Shadow so well. He could find _anyone._

And right now, he was finding Ceit and her polish and oil and smoke and petrichor. Slipping through the alleyways of the broken city with mindless determination, half there and half not, he followed that scent through what might have been his home, had things gone any differently, in a strange form of meditation only a good hunt could bring. He could smell the vode he’d been immersed in for the past month loud and clear, bright and bubbling on the edge of the city, still doing their sweeps, guarding the refugee camps and taking the time to wind down after their losses.

Ceit was somewhere in the middle of it all, and he intended to locate her.

It was hard to pay attention to any one thing in this state. There was a single minded focus to locate her, but the world was a buzz in the background, low grade and vibrating with quiet intensity, a hodgepodge of scents that stood out independently and yet blended together into some kind of primordial soup he didn’t care to detangle.

Ceit. He had to find Ceit. She wasn’t at the camp… No, she was at the spaceport. Her ship. She must be ensuring it was still in one piece. He was surprised she hadn’t taken off planet when everything went to hell. Something must have kept her here.

He wished he knew Aelia’s Force presence as well as Ceit. It was a nice one. The scent of ozone and layered clouds and the scent-taste of lightning, lurking just under the tongue, Aelia was a storm wrapped up in a person, deadly and daring and a threat on her lover’s life more than she was a balm. Tibalt trusted her, though. Ceit would have never been happy with an _average_ woman. She needed Aelia like a spacer needed the stars, as cruel as the Mirialan could be.

It was a damned shame Aelia had gotten stuck here in the middle of all of this. They had a decent support network in the system, but Devaronians and Mirialans butted heads like pissed off rancors in mating season. When stress was high…

No wonder they had holed up on the ship, even in the blockade. They didn’t stick around Devaron for very long most of the time. They only came _back_ to the system because they had a surplus of clients here and Ceit got discounts thanks to her father, who knew just about everyone. He was worse than Hondo. _Officially,_ he wasn’t a pirate, but…

Well.

Let it never be said Tibalt wasn’t descended from scoundrels. Juui Beleren just had an awful lot of contacts for a law abiding citizen. And he was probably going to be _insufferable_ now that Tibalt had liberated the planet. Force, if only Tibalt could disown him…

_“Are you aware that you are about to walk off a landing platform?”_ Cee asked, and Tibalt slid to a halt, blinking hard at the very edge of the landing platform he had wandered onto.

Well. That was a successful tracking meditation, if you asked Tibalt.

Looking up, he pursed his lips as he looked around for the ship he knew was Ceit’s. No, no, no… Ah, there she was.

_The Lady’s Jubilee_ was a YT-2400 Corellian light freighter, ugly as sin, but relatively new and horrifically reliable. Tibalt had been on that ship a handful of times in the past, and he appreciated the modifications done. It was a nightmare for precise jumps, though, which were his bread and butter as a pirate. Being able to come out at the _exact_ right position at the _exact_ right moment, calculated down to the _millisecond,_ was something Tibalt prided himself on as a pirate. He was one of the best. It was a scientific art, and _Jubilee_ had always been a bit finicky about it. He always got the exact _wrong_ angle. Granted, he’d only done it _twice,_ but still.

There she was, along with the strong Force presences on board, and Tibalt took a running jump to land on the opposite platform, Cee blasting up to follow him. Lazily, he strode up to the closed ramp and rapped loudly, knowing damn well their proximity alarms were going nuts right about now. It took a moment, but there was soon a hiss of hydraulics and the creak of the ramp lowering, and Tibalt stepped back, arms crossed and head tilted back at the spray of light above.

“Going to invite me up?” He called with a half smirk, and his aunt frowned down at him, black hair pulled up in a bun and looking like utter trash with a _terrible_ skincare routine. Her face was haggard and drawn, and for a moment he felt guilty that it had taken him so long to wrap up this blasted campaign.

“Shouldn’t you be at the palace?” Ceit asked, her voice a gentle burr as always, and Tibalt’s face twisted in distaste.

“I have to be back for the state dinner. Up, me, yes?”

“Fine. Get up here,” Ceit ordered and stepped back. His eyes lit on the blaster on her hip, the way her hand twitched around it, and a pang hit him before he managed to sweep up the ramp with Cee hot on his heels.

“Ceit, this is R2-C7, or Cee. Cee, this is my Aunt Ceit,” he said politely as Ceit keyed in the code for the ramp to shut and lock.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, offhand and distracted, and Tibalt managed a glance around.

“Sorry I took so long,” he apologized, like he could have somehow managed to take an entire planet in one day and _should_ have.

“You liberate an entire planet and the first thing out of your mouth is sorry?” Ceit asked wryly and reached forward to flick his hood off. “I know you’re a Jedi before a Beleren, but I’m beginning to doubt you’re a Beleren at _all._ Where’s the theatrics?”

“We’ve got several hours for theatrics, and I have a whole show planned for you. Where’s Aelia?” He shot back, because it _was_ a show, and an unpleasant one at that.

“Cockpit. What are you _really_ doing here?” Ceit cut him off on his way to the cockpit, her piercing purple gaze stripping him bare and laying him out, and Tibalt wondered, very briefly, what idiot said Jedi never spoke to their families again after being taken to the creche. They weren’t exactly _close,_ but a life without her was _weird,_ and _Force,_ she didn’t know him like she got to know him during the war. There was time and space between them and he didn’t know how to bridge that gap.

“I have a problem I can’t take to the Jedi or High Command,” he answered honestly, and paused. “It’s _very_ delicate, and I need to outsource it to someone I know I can trust to stay low until I need them.”

The unsaid went between them: you are a criminal that can drop off the map as needed and I need that.

Ceit studied him with hard, tired eyes, and Tibalt felt supremely bad for springing this on her in the aftermath of an illegal occupation that just _couldn’t_ have been easy on her in the slightest. They couldn’t leave, and it was honestly surprising they hadn’t blasted out of the system as soon as they got the chance, which left Tibalt with the distinct impression that he was in for a rude surprise. They’d stayed on planet _last_ time, and he had never found out why. Not that he wanted to _ask,_ but still. Ceit had a lot of secrets, and he knew better than to worry about them.

“What is it?” Ceit asked bluntly, and Tibalt internally cringed.

“It’s for Aelia.”

“If it’s for my _wife,_ it’s for me, too,” Ceit said stubbornly, and Tibalt pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t need to _vet_ jobs for your wife,” he said, and gods, the box in his pocket had never felt heavier. How was he even going to pay for this? He hadn’t thought about it. It wasn’t _technically_ legal for him to gamble as a Jedi, but…

Hutt space played it fast and loose. He just needed some undercover clothes, a hop into Canto Bight, and _Force,_ he was a _General_ now with _responsibilities._ He couldn’t go gallivanting off to Canto Bight to rustle up a smuggler’s hold worth of illegally obtained credits. Well, he _could_ if he made up an excuse, but…

Force, people were going to _recognize_ him now. He had enjoyed anonymity in the war. How was he going to get anything done as the poster boy of the war effort? He had just headed the first successful battle of the entire war, with minimal casualties and a campaign finished in less than a month. And he had faced off with a Sith, and he was pretty kriffing sure they were going to be using the helmet cam footage for propaganda reels. Which was going to be _annoying,_ but whatever.

“Tibalt,” Ceit cut in before his brain wandered too far, looking at him with a worried furrow in her brow. “What’s going on?”

“... Where’s Aelia?” He asked, exhaustion sapping at his bones and forcing him to unwind all of his tightly coiled muscles in a facsimile of relaxation in a place that _should_ be safe.

“Cockpit, like I said. Kriff, you’re exhausted, aren’t you?” Ceit was all concern now, wrapping a hand around his weirdly armored arm to pull him off through the halls and towards the cockpit. Tibalt rubbed a tired hand over his face, trying to understand just when and why his entire karking mind had run off on him, and Ceit pushed him into the cockpit, where a pale Mirialan was jammed up under the panel, skirt clinging to her legs and leggings and ankle boots poking through. There was muffled cursing in Mirialan from under the panel, and Tibalt leaned against the doorway with crossed arms as Ceit nudged her with the toe of her boot.

“Tibalt’s here and brought an astromech,” Ceit said dryly, and there was another vehement curse as Aelia tried to start wiggling out in all of her red faced and panting glory.

“I didn’t bring an astromech to work on your ship, Ceit,” Tibalt complained before reaching forward with one foot to stop Aelia from crawling forward anymore. “Your headdress is caught. Stop while you’re ahead.”

“Kriff, you couldn’t have sent a _comm?_ ” Aelia demanded as Ceit went onto her knees to start detangling her from whatever she was pinned on under the panel.

“Got cut in half,” Tibalt answered honestly, because it _did,_ and now he was going to have to wrangle up a second, non-GAR issued comm to conduct all of his less-than-legal business on. Aggravating. He knew that _realistically,_ he shouldn’t be going to so many lengths to circumnavigate attention, but old habits were habits for a _reason,_ and he needed consistent contact with Bail.

“Yeah? Heard you got in a fight,” Aelia said, her full lips quirking wryly as Ceit painstakingly detangled her with the patience of a saint.

“Yeah. It’s going to be all over the holonet the second public relations get their hands on it,” Tibalt said dryly, like it wasn’t a pain in the ass. ‘Look at how long they’ve been preparing for this! Those dastardly Separatists!’ Like the Separatists themselves weren’t anything but bantha fodder, but he could keep his opinions to himself.

For now.

“Tibalt has been in a fight for _weeks._ One lady with a shiny sword flailing about hardly matters in the face of beating back an occupation like this,” Ceit said and then grunted. There was the sound of something ripping, and everyone froze. “... Okay, just a few popped seams, nothing to worry about---”

“Get out of the way, Ceit,” Tibalt said in irritation, and Ceit obligingly backed up as he wrestled his way down there to check and see how bad the damage was. “Okay, you’re going to be sitting there for a few minutes. How did you get it _pinched_ like this?”

“I’ve been moving stuff around!” Aelia protested as Tibalt drew the slim knife he kept in his boot.

“Either I unscrew this mount and leave it to you to put it back together, and it looks like you _just_ put it back together, or I cut out the corner that got caught,” Tibalt said with faux patience, and Aelia just _sighed._

“It won’t be the first headdress I sacrifice to this blasted ship. Keeps _breaking_ on me. Just cut it; my back’s starting to hurt.”

“You’re too young to have a bad back,” Tibalt said in amusement and sliced through the finely woven cloth that looked like it’d been used to mop up an oil spill at some point or another.

“Try saying that again when you _aren’t_ a teenager,” Aelia shot back. “I’m nearly thirty, and the whole family’s got a history of slippery joints!”

Tibalt considered the amount of punishment his body had taken by the age of twenty-one and how he woke up hurting more than he woke up relaxed and conceded the point. No one said piracy was _easy_ on the body. Neither was being a Jedi Knight, for that matter. Really, he was pretty sure he had nearly killed both livers to stay undercover, and the second liver was small enough as it was.

“There,” he declared as he finally got the headdress loose. “You’re free.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Aelia said and squirmed out from under the panel, fixing her loosely draped skirt around the leggings and smoothing down her shirt. “See, Ceit? He’d be useful on the crew!”

“Tibalt’s too busy being a big, bad general now,” Ceit said dryly, but he detected a flicker of _worry_ from her. Concern. He could empathize; he was pretty damned worried about _himself._ “Shiny new astromech and everything.”

“They gave me a Delta-7,” he said smugly. “Aelia, meet R2-C7. Or just Cee.”

_“This is our slicer?”_ Cee asked derisively. _“She used her headdress as an oil rag.”_

“Cee, be polite,” Tibalt hissed. “She speaks binary.”

_“Good,”_ Cee retorted, and Aelia snorted.

“You got a willful one,” she said dryly and rapped her knuckles on Cee’s dome. “Cee, huh? Nice to meet you. Love a droid that roasts any sentient in their immediate vicinity.”

Cee let out a hissing squeal, akin to a snort, and Tibalt bumped her warningly with his hip, the tin box in his pocket rattling.

“So, like Cee said, I need a slicer,” he said, and Aelia crossed her arms, leaned against the control panel.

“That so, huh?” Her blue eyes flickered over the unlikely pair as she kicked one heel back against the smooth metal surface. “And you couldn’t do it yourself, because…?”

“I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good. There can be _no_ room for error,” Tibalt said flatly. “This is… A tricky kind of job. You may have to lay low for a bit. Or at least never mention it to anyone until I can… Well, I’m planning something.”

“That so? What’s the pay?” Aelia screamed of skepticism, but Tibalt knew better than to fake bravado with her.

“Everything I can clean out of Canto Bight,” Tibalt answered honestly. “It may take me a few months to get _over_ there, but…”

_“Everything?”_ Ceit asked incredulously, because she knew _exactly_ the kind of damage a rogue Jedi could do in a place like Canto Bight.

“Everything,” Tibalt confirmed. “You do this for me, and I’ll set you up for life. It’s worth it. Just know that with the war… It’ll be a little dicey finding the time to get over there until I can invent an excuse.”

“That’s a tall order,” Aelia said dryly, and Ceit gave her a sharp look, a spike of familial protectiveness overtaking the cockpit. It was almost touching.

“He’s good for it,” she said defensively, like Aelia had somehow wounded _her_ pride.

“What’s the job?” Aelia asked by ways of a reply, and Tibalt reached into his pocket to withdraw the tin. Aelia reached out for it, and Tibalt set it in her palm, only to withhold it at the last second. Their gazes met, and grim determination struck him.

“This is _dangerous._ It could get you killed,” Tibalt warned. “And it’s not just your life on the line if you kark it up.”

Millions. It was millions. But she would find out soon enough.

“I got it,” she said, and pulled the tin loose so she could flip open the lid. “... I have _no_ idea how to hook up to these.”

“I’m giving you time,” Tibalt said thickly as Aelia lifted a chip up and examined it in the light coming in through the cockpit window.

“These little things got you all worked up? Base command programming would fit into these at _best,_ ” she said derisively, shuffling the identical chips around in the tin. “Not much info can be hidden on something _this_ size with this kind of circuitry.”

“They were in the brains of my troops,” Tibalt blurted, and the two women froze. Ice descended on the cockpit, frosted with a maelstrom of conflicted feelings, and a long silence drew out, lethal and cutting.

  
“What the _hell---_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this mean there's going to be a heist arc in the near future? Yes. Yes, there is.
> 
> Do we like Aelia and Ceit? Would y'all like regular cameos of them? Love me some smuggling wives uwu
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for sexual harassment and racism in this chapter

It had taken a good twenty minutes to explain the entire situation without letting the whole ‘oh by the way I’m a time traveler’ thing slip. After that there had been a lot of arguing, a lot of discussion, with Ceit of the  _ firm _ belief that he should just  _ desert, _ like that was somehow the  _ right _ thing to do when he had all of this shit going on, and when he managed to talk her down, she had been pissed and unhappy with the whole situation. Trustworthy, though. Always trustworthy. Her and Aelia had sworn to go into one of their boltholes and maintain contact, and had even managed to get Tibalt an encrypted comlink, off the GAR network, programmed for smugglers and thieves. Which had been a relief and a half, if you asked him.

Explaining the same thing over and over again was getting exhausting. He felt like a puppet at this point, parroting the same statement to multiple people. The cover story he’d come up with on the fly about the defector had managed to go over well, at least. It made  _ sense. _ It was just such a shame his imaginary Kaminoan had died before they got their information to the Senate. Such a shame.

And now Tibalt was making his reluctant way back to the palace, crawling out of his skin with anxiety and worry that was leaking out of him like a cloud. He had his contact. He had his slicer. The war had barely started and he already had the dechipping well under way. He should feel like this was a victory, but the more he got done, the more like a failure he felt. He hadn’t been able to keep Krell from being deployed. He didn’t know what to do about Skywalker. There was probably not going to be any damning evidence about Palpatine on the chips. He wasn’t that stupid. There was a Sith running the Senate, and a war that shouldn’t even be happening, and he’d lost men in his campaign. He could have lost a lot  _ more. _ From the reports, compared to his memories, the losses were practically miniscule, though most of that could be blamed on his memorization of mission reports in an effort to figure out ways to provide the best intel to minimize losses.

His guilt from the last go around was the only thing that had kept his men alive this time, but how much longer could he do this? He didn’t memorize  _ everything, _ and pretty soon he was going to start changing things to the point where he  _ had _ to rely on more than his knowledge of future events. Pretty soon, it would be down to just him and his wits and…

He didn’t know what to do about that. His wits certainly hadn’t saved the galaxy the last time. They hadn’t even saved a nursery.

At least he had Bail Organa on his side. That was nothing to sneeze at, but he wasn’t sure if Bail Organa would be  _ enough. _ He wasn’t enough last time, and… Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? A Senator and a Jedi, being enough for the entire galaxy. Wasn’t  _ Anakin Skywalker _ supposed to be the chosen one? Wasn’t  _ he _ supposed to be the one that brought balance and vanquished the evil that festered in the corners of the galaxy? Wasn’t  _ he _ supposed to fix what was broken?

… But Skywalker had failed, and Tibalt had to accept that he was what was left in the aftermath. One lone Shadow, who had never been much of anything, a good duelist, a good spy, but never one of the greats. Skywalker had been on the  _ Council. _ Tibalt was never going to be that Jedi, and he just… had to be enough.

Is this what it felt like for Skywalker? The pressing weight of responsibility? Most Jedi had never bothered with believing in the myth, and treated him accordingly, but Skywalker had always  _ known _ that if it was going to be anyone, it was going to be him. That had to be some kind of hell to live with. All of this responsibility and nowhere to go.

Tibalt scarcely noticed when he made it back to the palace. There was supposed to be some kind of dinner he was supposed to be at with Plo, and he desperately didn’t want to go. He was never one for state dinners, even in the aftermath of battles. Perhaps  _ especially  _ in the aftermath of a battle. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be too ceremonious. Queen Gial was a no-nonsense sort of woman, and a beloved ruler not given to frivolity and circumstance. Her people had just been through a horrendous invasion and siege that was only circumvented by Tibalt’s intimate knowledge of early war Separatist tactics. It wouldn’t be an ostentatious event. But  _ Force, _ he wasn’t going to be able to avoid Kythia, and he  _ really _ didn’t have the energy to deal with her.

He made a promise to Grim, and he wasn’t going to be breaking promises to his Commander anytime soon. He could break promises to a lot of people, but Grim…

Grim was Grim, and Tibalt couldn’t deny that he was very invested in Grim having faith in him. For a variety of reasons. Skipping out on a state dinner and leaving his commander to deal with the fallout was not a good start to their working relationship. Tibalt had already trashed his training schedules. He didn’t need to escalate the situation.

And, so, here he was. Standing outside the gates of the palace, Cee at his side, staring up at the imposing dome of hell that was awaiting him. He really wanted a nap.

“You’re going to be late, sir.” How did Grim  _ already _ have a sixth sense for where he was? Or was it the helmet comms? It was probably the helmet comms.

“Commander,” Tibalt said smoothly, and Grim stopped him as he tried to stride inside.

“Did your mission involve cleaning up oil spills, sir?” He asked, and a rough thumb rubbed at Tibalt’s cheek. He pulled a face at the treatment, but didn’t pull away until Grim decided he was sufficiently cleaned.

“It was more a family reunion, which meant I got roped into ship repairs,” Tibalt replied and straightened his robes. “Am I up to your standards now, Commander?”

“You’re always up to my standards, sir,” Grim said and stepped to the side so he could fall in step with Tibalt.

_ “He didn’t get off all the oil. You should tell him to give you another scrub,” _ Cee chirped, and Tibalt shot her a dangerous glare.

“Well, it’s good to know I will always fit  _ someone’s _ expectations,” Tibalt drawled as he folded his hands behind his back. “Are Plo and Commander Wolffe already at the dinner?”

“They’re currently covering your lack of punctuality,” Grim said, and his helmet tilted slightly towards Tibalt. “Sir.”

“You just said I was  _ almost _ late.”

“On time is late. Early is on time,” Grim shot back, and Tibalt screwed up his nose.

“A Jedi is never late nor early. They arrive precisely when they mean to.” That was always what Nicanus always said when they missed an important rendezvous because the two of them got distracted with an unnecessary side quest.

“I’m not sure the Devaronian Royal Family will agree with you on that one,” Grim replied dryly, and Tibalt let out a dignified huff.

“The Devaronian Royal Family is very familiar with how I operate. My master and I mopped up a problem here a few years ago. We were  _ never _ on time.”

“That so?” Grim drawled, and Tibalt crinkled his nose.

“If I was on time, they would think something was wrong,” he insisted, and it was actually the truth, which was the worst part.

“Princess Kythia informed me in detail of your last visit. I don’t recall mention to you constantly being late to everything.”

“That’s because she wasn’t paying attention,” Tibalt sniffed before that full statement registered. “Wait, she told you  _ everything? _ ”

“I’m sure it was embellished, sir,” Grim said, in a tone that said he was not sure of that, not at all, but he wasn’t going to  _ outwardly _ say it.

Tibalt slowly let out a breath as they climbed the steps to the palace, and Grim shot him a glance he could  _ feel _ the heat behind. The concern was pouring off of him in waves, and Tibalt probably should be concerned that Grim had already figured out how to read him so well when everyone else completely failed at it, but if anyone  _ should _ be able to read him, it should probably be his commander.

“I can give a distraction if you want to skip,” Grim muttered, and Tibalt let out a halfhearted laugh.

“Was she that bad?” He asked, and Grim tilted his helmet, didn’t say anything. Tibalt sighed through his nose and rubbed his eyes. “She’s not  _ that _ bad. She’s young.”

He was eighteen in this time, and she was two years younger than him if he remembered right. They’d met when he was sixteen, and even then it had been overwhelming. She had it in her head that he was the dashing warrior she’d save from a life of celibacy and tragedy. After he saved  _ her _ first, of course, because she read entirely too many trashy holonovels that didn’t actually know anything about Jedi beyond how sexually attractive they were. The amount of people that had kinks for Jedi was… unnerving, and the princess had taken it to an uncomfortable level for everyone involved. Granted, no one knew how bad it was for Tibalt. Plo was under the impression that it was a harmless crush, and he was probably going to get frustrated when she inevitably pushed to a point where he could see Tibalt was unhappy with the whole thing. Realistically, Tibalt  _ should _ avoid the dinner, but he had also liberated an entire planet, which was  _ mind boggling, _ and he was pretty much locked into maintaining diplomatic relations.

“She’s very interested in you,” Grim bit out after a beat, and Tibalt pursed his lips before letting out a sigh.

“If I ran from every uncomfortable dinner with someone with sexual interest in Jedi, I’d never be able to eat again. I’m no Tae Diath, but you’d be surprised how loudly people project their thoughts,” he said with a grimace, and Grim tilted his head.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Never mind. I’ll be fine, Grim. I’m sorry I left you in that position,” he apologized, and Grim knocked their spaulders together.

“Better me than you.”

“Don’t say that,” Tibalt admonished him, picking up the tinges of discontent and disgruntled offense hanging around his commander like a cloud. “I’m  _ used _ to dealing with it. You don’t have to get used to it.”

“Still. You showed up upset,” Grim replied and Tibalt’s brows went up.

“You think I’m upset that I’m having to sit through an informal dinner with one teenage girl with a crush?” He asked, and Grim’s visor shifted to bore into him.

“Aren’t you?”

“No, that’s not what has me upset at all,” Tibalt said, a bit touched that Grim was so ready to intervene on his behalf. “Don’t worry about it, hm?”

“It’s my job to worry so you don’t have to, sir,” Grim replied confidently, and Tibalt’s lips twitched up as a wave of fondness overtook him.

“Well, I gotta have  _ some _ worries for myself, Commander. Don’t be stingy,” he teased and rattled their vambraces together on instinct. Grim paused, a little shocked, and Tibalt took advantage of his momentary spike of panic to skip forward down the hall. The banquet room was just around the corner, and he would  _ much _ rather escape this uncomfortable conversation  _ before _ he had to step inside.

“Keep up, Commander! You’re going to make me late!” He called, and Grim spurned himself into movement, a flash of annoyance blasting Tibalt in the offense, which only gained the commander a cheeky grin as Tibalt spun around the corner and pushed open the doors on his own.

The vod careened around the corner and immediately snapped into proper posture at the sight of the banquet hall. Just as Tibalt thought, it was an informal affair. Everyone had been neatly situated in an informal room rather than the state room, where they sat on pillows at a low table rather than the high backed chairs of the state room Tibalt only vaguely remembered. The royal family was there, joined by Plo and Commander Wolffe, the Captain of the Guard, Juros, who had been organizing the planetary resistance before Tibalt arrived, and only a few token guards lined the walls. Not that they had many guards to  _ spare. _ Half of them had been wiped out just trying to get the family to safety.

Wolffe looked massively uncomfortable. Plo had strategically sat himself next to Kythia, which left Wolffe on the other side of him. His face was a mask, but he was practically projecting discomfort at the whole thing. Queen Gial sat at the head, with her husband Karkos next to her, and Tibalt immediately picked up that the Princet, Yubi, was missing. From what he recalled, the Princet was fervent about training to be in the medical field, so he had a feeling if xe was missing, xe was likely to be found in the medical tents. And probably staging a protest at the understated meal, if Tibalt had xir type pegged.

“General Beleren,” Gial said smoothly. “How good of you and Commander Grim to join us. I see you’ve maintained your habits since your last visit.”

He might interpret it as a dig, but he knew better. Gial liked him, and this was an informal setting where she could drag him as she damned well pleased. The setup was basically a familial dinner, despite the fact that they were hashing out politics over it. The empty spot next to Juros was calling to him, and he made a beeline for it following a polite bow reeking of his self assurance.

“I thought you might think me an imposter if I showed up on time, Your Majesty,” he said graciously, and her lips only  _ barely _ lifted.

“I trust you had an informative jaunt to my landing pads?” She asked as he took his seat and directed Grim to sit down next to him.

“Highly. You can find all kinds of people there with all sorts of skills,” he replied sweetly, because there was no point in denying visiting criminals he may or may not be related to directly to her face. Gial lifted a politely inquisitive brow in response, and Tibalt gave her a bold, cheeky grin. That gained him a sharp nudge in the Force from Plo, and he turned perfectly innocent eyes on the old master. Plo tilted his head, the wrinkles about his face crinkling in something close to amusement, and Wolffe’s sharp eyes flicked between the two of them. It was so weird to see him with both eyes intact. Tibalt wasn’t sure if he could manage to keep his face in one piece this time. He _wanted_ to, but he never did figure out all the things that led up to him missing his eye. It had upset Plo a lot, so he hadn’t dug into it out of respect, and now he was regretting that, and would you look at that? His brain was running off on him again. _Force,_ he was stressed, and the war was barely _starting._ _Again._

“You went on an adventure and you left me with your  _ commander? _ ” Kythia could never sit still for long without being a part of the conversation, and Wolffe’s gaze shifted between him, Grim, and her. Tibalt could see those gears turning behind his head, and there was a sort of hardness that overtook his eyes as he came to whatever conclusion he was going to come to.

“I wouldn’t call it an adventure. Cee was going stir crazy,” Tibalt soothed, which was a blatant lie, but she had been left out in the hall to cause mischief and wasn’t here to contradict him.

“Try this,” Kythia demanded imperiously, apparently skipping over whatever discussion that was going to lead up to her trying to feed Tibalt, and a bowl full of raw meat was shoved at him.

“Kythia, my dear, he’s not fully Devaronian, he can’t process raw meat like us,” Karkos cut in, and Tibalt waved him off.

“It’s perfectly fine, Your Grace,” he said, internally bracing for the incoming wave of constant comments throughout the dinner at him being not  _ fully _ Devaronian. “I can eat raw meat.”

“Oh, my apologies, General Beleren,” he said, his inflection emphasizing his very not-Devaronian last name. “We had meat prepared for you specially.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Tibalt said tightly, with a deliberate shift of his eyes between the two commanders, like he was reminding the annoying man they were  _ there. _ “It seems like we must have had a miscommunication. I can eat a fully Devaronian meal. They’re not dangerous for me.”

Technically, the Humans in the room could, too. The meat itself was perfectly safe for consumption, and tender enough that their bodies wouldn’t have trouble breaking it down. It was just a matter of taste buds firing differently. But he wasn’t going to point that out. He could barely manage to restrain himself from making the aggravating Prince Consort eat his own tongue as it was. Kythia got  _ all _ her bad habits from him. Damned political marriages. Gial shouldn’t have to put up with his pompous ass. He  _ hoped _ she was cheating on the git.

Plo took a  _ very _ loud sip from his straw, pointed, and there was a distinct shove in the air of the very noticeable thought of  _ ‘behave’. _ Tibalt had heard the sentiment without it being voiced enough in his life that he had the general concept memorized. With a bite back of a sigh, he leaned over and dumped a lump of rice in his bowl, followed by a few pieces of meat to pick at. A nudge was given to Grim, and the commander gave him a semi-helpless look. He had  _ no _ idea what the table manners were at a Devaronian family table were. If only he realized there  _ were _ no manners. No one would even blink if he put his elbows on the table, and it was galactically acknowledged that elbows on the table were  _ rude. _ Oh, well.

“We can’t thank the Republic enough for the prompt response to our plight,” Gial said as Kythia very  _ loudly _ projected her discontent at being ignored by Tibalt. “I must admit, given your youth, I was concerned that this campaign would be a disaster, but you did very well, General Beleren. I would have thought you had experience.”

“No experience on paper, I assure you,” Tibalt replied with a twitch. Grim was  _ still _ not moving, practically projecting stark terror at eating in front of the royals. Wolffe wasn’t moving, either. Prince Jooi, next to him, was eyeing him in that way that practically  _ stank _ of a Devaronian deciding there wasn’t enough meat on someone’s bones. Tibalt wished him luck with that.

“On paper?” Gial echoed politely, and  _ Force, _ Tibalt wished they could jump right into negotiations and shop talk, but that had to wait for  _ dessert. _ Well, not really. He  _ could _ jump right into it, but it was polite to let Gial draw the conversation there.

“On paper,” he confirmed with a cheeky grin. “You remember the nature of my work previous to our unfortunate situation with the Separatists.”

“I remember your work leading to half a city burning,” Gial said, and Tibalt scrunched up his nose.

“It was a quarter at most, and the blame for that can’t be put on me,” he said and moved his hands to start piling rice in Grim’s bowl. The vod startled next to him, sucking in a breath to say something, but Tibalt very deliberately nudged him with the Force. He knew he would be overwhelmed by  _ most _ of these flavors, given how bland the food he received on Kamino was when he wasn’t given rations, but he could pick through. A few sniffs here, a few sniffs there, and he could absolutely build him a meal he could handle.

Prince Jooi’s eyes widened, and then he just took Tibalt absentmindedly lumping steamed veggies in Grim’s bowl as blanket permission to just start dumping food in a startled, helpless Wolffe’s bowl. Tibalt’s lips twitched in amusement, but he just sent him a conspiratorial wink as Wolffe’s mouth opened and shut, wide, offended eyes darting around the table for an ally.

“Was it only a quarter?” Gial asked politely, and Tibalt’s nose scrunched up as he pretended to consider it. Deft hands dumped cooked and well seasoned strips of red meat into Grim’s bowl as Plo delicately looked away. Amusement was practically  _ radiating _ off the other Jedi, and Wolffe looked downright  _ offended _ at the lack of support from his general.

“I’m absolutely positive it was a quarter,” Tibalt said confidently, even though it was closer to an eighth, maybe a sixteenth, but Gial loved a little embellishment.

“Try this, trust me,” Jooi whispered, utterly failing to modulate his volume, and Tibalt wondered if it was just a galactic thing for civilians to adopt clones, or if it was just a Wolffe thing. The second people stopped fearing him, they were practically competing to feed him. It was just something about his general displeased demeanor.

Kythia was watching Tibalt with a piercing gaze, but he was  _ not _ about to engage her. Not today. The feelings pouring off her were downright  _ uncomfortable. _ Plo wasn’t happy about it, either. Not that he would  _ outwardly _ show it, but Tibalt had the benefit of knowing Plo very well and the Force, which was a blessing and a curse right now. At least he knew how much of a wide berth he should give to the princess after dinner.

Grim finally relented to Tibalt’s pressure and took a bite of steamed, fresh vegetable. A muffled noise escaped his lips, just low enough for Tibalt to pick up, and a hit of satisfaction overtook the Jedi at the sudden shock of  _ awe _ coming off his commander. He remembered last time around, the first meal for a vod coming off Kamino was always a big deal. He’d encouraged his men to eat the local wildlife (within reason) for that precise reason. And he was absolutely going to bribe Ceit into smuggling him seasonings when he got a chance. Last time around, she had fed every vod she stumbled across, and he knew for a fact he could spin a sob story to get her to get his men seasonings. There would have to be a trade, but he’d work something out. Vod liquor had gotten  _ good _ over the course of the war, and went for obscene amounts of money outside of the GAR, so he could probably have her set up a trade network for extra credits and seasonings to stash away.

Wolffe gave in to the prince’s pressure and started to eat the food offered to him. There was a flicker of shock, then glee that was swiftly muffled, and Tibalt let his smugness grow to critical levels. Plo relaxed ever so slightly at the gleam in Tibalt’s eye, and Tibalt set to his own meal with gusto. Devaronian cooking  _ was _ good, after all. Now that the vode were fed, he could enjoy.

Gial settled into polite conversation and delicate jabs, which Tibalt met with equal fervor, because he knew exactly how she operated, and the dinner continued. Kythia jumped in every so often, only to be spoken over by her angel of a brother, and steady amounts of food kept finding their way into the commanders’ bowls as the discussion slowly and steadily drifted towards trade agreements and GAR personnel being stationed on planet at the Temple. Plo started to engage more, and Kythia watched Tibalt and Grim interact with some kind of dawning realization Tibalt did  _ not _ want to think about. The commanders were questioned on planetary security and their thoughts on how to hold Devaron, which he was grateful for. They trained their whole lives for this, and being dismissed outright was just stupid. Tibalt and Plo had vast educations, but they still weren’t soldiers. They weren’t the experts in the room, and respect went a long way to maintaining good working relationships.

By the end of dinner, a trade agreement and holding station had been hammered out, and Tibalt was feeling a lot less useless. The chips were safe with Aelia and Ceit, he had the start of a plan for raiding Canto Bight working in the back of his mind, Grim and Wolffe were somewhat comfortable, and for the moment, he could relax in the knowledge that for now, only four people in the galaxy knew he was planning something, and only one person who had a lifetime of running a rebellion and shielding his thoughts from a Sith knew the full picture, and the odds were still in his favor of preventing galactic destruction.

  
  


He almost felt confident. It was a near, tentative thing, and it tasted dangerously like hope, but…

Well, if he didn’t have hope, what else was there to have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to call this the calm before the storm. Next up: Wolffe and Grim Talk, and then time skip to Cristophsis!
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay soooooo massive trigger warning for discussion of suicide, decommissioning, ableism, and reconditioning. im sorry but it needed to be done. Breakdown at the bottom.

Princess Kythia was… something. Wolffe was not sure which was the bigger spectacle: Grim trying to run interference with the princess so General Beleren could do his karking  _ job, _ General Beleren doing his damned hardest to get away  _ from _ the princess, to the point of hiding in  _ broom closets, _ or General Koon’s attempts to contain the situation before it spiraled even further out of control. It was like Kythia was entirely unaware her  _ planet _ had just been damn near ripped to shreds and there was a war going on and it was  _ not _ the time for her holo romance fantasies. They would be here for a week more negotiating and flushing out the last of the Separatists, and General Koon was in a fit over the existence of the Sith, apparently, assassin who had made a  _ beeline _ for Beleren, thinking him the easier obstacle to overcome. General Koon, apparently, had a reputation for being one of the best duelists  _ and _ pilots on the council. No one had told  _ Wolffe _ that, but apparently there was a lot that people weren’t telling Wolffe, so he couldn’t be too mad.

Like the fact that there were separate group chats to segregate him and Fox from Grim, which he was quietly miffed about, but it would be stupid to not accept it. He wasn’t  _ that _ childish. It was just ridiculous that they  _ had _ to have separate group chats for the sake of Grim’s chronic non confrontational habits. The man would do literally  _ anything _ to avoid talking to his batchmates. He had once marched up to one of the Nulls and challenged him to a spar to get out of Fox cornering him on his osik. The Null had thought it too funny to get pissed and then obliged just to cause more drama. That was about the time Wolffe had just decided to hate Nulls on principle. Not only were they  _ di’kuts _ that got off on seeing ‘the regs’ struggle, they were  _ enablers _ for Grim’s bad behavior, and that alone was worthy of disdain.

In any case, after that disaster of a dinner and a full cycle stint of getting everything organized and contained and letting the post battle chaos die down, Wolffe was finally given the opportunity to corner Grim, who was no longer on princess duty and no longer able to  _ avoid _ his first batchmate. It took a lot of work, but Grim was now trapped in the quarters that had been offered up for the officers to share in the palace with nowhere to go. Unless he felt like chasing around that general of his, but he had had a  _ very _ long day of chasing that general around and probably wanted a karking break.

“Wolffe, stop staring at me like that,” Grim snapped from across the room as he made a show of filling out flimsiwork on his datapad. Wolffe settled into the chair and crossed his arms, staring at Grim with a contemplative look, memorizing the new scar marring his face and the horns etched on his vambrace.

“What’s with the vambrace thing for Alpha Company?” He asked, and Grim hesitated, his eyes flicking up to Wolffe before they settled back on the pad.

“Now isn’t the time to talk about it,” he settled on and stood up, tossing the datapad on the other bed and stretching lazily. “I’ll tell you when we’re leaving. I don’t have the stuff for it right now.”

“ _ What _ stuff?” Wolffe demanded, and Grim sighed as he started to strip off his armor.

“Stuff,” he said, like that was answering the question, and Wolffe narrowed his eyes dangerously.

“Fine. Are we going to talk about the  _ other _ osik you promised to talk about?”

Grim very obviously set his cuirass down with a  _ thunk, _ a passive aggressive move, but understandable. Silence stretched out between them, and Wolffe crossed his arms, frown on his lips as he took in the sight of his beaten down and  _ tired _ brother in front of him. Grim looked like trash. There were bags under his eyes, and his cheeks were gaunt, like he’d been skipping meals. A precursory glance revealed a total lack of water weight. He was parred down to muscle and muscle alone, and Wolffe had witnessed both his CMO and his general sneakily putting snacking foods within his reach as he worked on reports. They’d already figured out how to curb his starving habits, which was impressive. When they started up when they were seven, it had taken his batchmates a full year to figure him out. He wondered, vaguely, if Cody had told Gree and if Gree had, in turn, told General Beleren or Butcher. Probably Butcher. Grim was still on thin ice, and a decommission…

Wolffe didn’t want to think about that.

“I never wanted you to get decommissioned,” he suddenly said, and Grim hesitated before returning to what he was doing. Silent treatment, then? Fine. Wolffe could  _ talk _ until Grim broke. Grim always broke easy. “I really didn’t. I was  _ mad, _ but we came out of the same tube. Nothing was going to change that.”

“I thought you would have preferred Fox as a tube mate,” Grim said bitterly, and Wolffe bristled.

No. He was  _ trying _ to make Wolffe rant to derail the conversation. It hadn’t been  _ that _ long. Wolffe still knew his tricks.

“Didn’t matter if I did or not,” and the unsaid went there: you’re not going to rile me up. “You were still the one I was shoved in a tube with.”

The two of them had dodged a  _ lot _ of decommissioning for that. They’d nearly been put down a handful of times, and it was only curiosity on the part of the long necks that had stayed their execution. To see if the two of them could just develop  _ normally. _ And they had. They’d been the model vode, right up until Grim lost his damn mind and tried to steal Bric’s ship.

Grim was silent as he stripped his legs. That was fine. Wolffe knew he said the exact right thing to start the cracking, and he could wait him out. Once Grim was flopped under the covers, he’d start talking. Wolffe just had to wait him out, and in the meantime he could probably take off his own armor and bunk down for the night.

True to form, Grim ripped off the blankets like they pissed him off and burrowed down under them with an angry huff, and Wolffe’s lips  _ almost _ twitched. Almost. He was still pissed at the bullheaded idiot, but Grim’s temper tantrums were always  _ something. _

Silence reigned, only broken by Wolffe stacking his armor in his chest plate with careful reverence, and finally Grim coughed.

“They were going to recondition me.”

The world stopped.

“... Before I took the ship. Bric told me they were going to recondition me. Because my brain… jumps to the worst possible conclusion, and I’ve never been able to stop it. I just… thought.”

“You thought,” Wolffe started to say, and Grim cleared his throat, cutting him off right there.

“I  _ thought _ it would be easier on you all if… If it was because of my own… my own choices. And I kinda would’ve preferred a decommissioning for desertion. I would’ve died either way, but at least…”

At least his body would still be his.

In their world, even the body was too much to ask for.

There was white hot anger pulsing in Wolffe’s veins, and he opened his mouth, shut it, Alpha’s words echoing back in his brain, a quiet reminder to figure out who the kriff he was pissed at before he started running his mouth. Grim was trying to get decommissioned, and something went  _ wrong. _

“You thought  _ that _ would be easier?” Wolffe asked, strangled and strange, like that wasn’t really his voice. “On  _ us? _ ”

“Don’t kid yourself, Wolffe,” Grim said darkly, still resolutely refusing to look at him, a lump under his covers. “A single recondition will take out a whole karking batch. We all saw it. I’m not  _ stupid. _ I thought… I thought I was a goner either way.”

Wolffe had seen it, alright. One recondition or defect decommissioning could bring an entire batch to its knees. If the grief didn’t wreck them, the paranoia did the job. The long necks thought it was acceptable: if they couldn’t handle one of their own disappearing under their nose, they weren’t going to handle combat. They couldn’t possibly understand that it wasn’t about  _ losing _ someone. It was about losing someone like  _ that. _ There was a  _ difference. _

“It wasn’t your place to make that kinda call,” Wolffe said thickly. “You don’t get to---”

“Be weaker than everyone else?” Grim sat up now, looking at Wolffe with eyes that  _ should _ be mad, but really were just  _ sad. _ “No one was going to name me _ Kote. _ No one was going to name me after a predator, not like you and Fox. No one was going to say I was going to do  _ great things. _ You all  _ knew _ I was defective. Bly got a  _ normal _ name. I got ‘Grim’. Because I saw the worst in everything. Because I wasn’t  _ glorious. _ Because I wasn’t  _ dangerous, _ or even  _ normal. _ Because I was a  _ wreck, _ and I was doomed to have a grim name and a grimmer death. Don’t kid yourself, Wolffe. You always knew  _ exactly _ what I was.”

There it was again.  _ Grim. _ Unfair of Grim to say, really. But wasn’t that half of his problems? He always believed everyone saw what he insisted was real: that he wasn’t enough for  _ anyone. _ And he was still doing it.

So, he’d gotten a bit of a backbone, but some habits just weren’t meant to break.

“I  _ knew _ you were a vod,  _ my _ vod, and nothing else mattered,” Wolffe snapped, because of  _ course _ he didn’t know how to put any of that into words, and that was going to bite him in the ass sooner rather than later.

“It mattered to  _ me, _ ” Grim hissed, and Wolffe felt white hot anger flicker again, the kind only Grim could pull out of him, because Grim could be so much  _ better, _ and he refused to  _ do it. _

“If you saw it as a weakness, that was your  _ own _ fault,” he snarled, and Grim actually  _ laughed _ at him. To his face.

“It  _ was _ a weakness. It nearly got me  _ reconditioned. _ Prime had to cuss out the long necks and give me specialized training to get it to work with me, turn it into a weapon instead of a  _ problem. _ It’s only a strength now because Prime saw something in me and thought if I was trash, I was going to be  _ good _ trash.”

Grim’s voice broke a little at that declaration, and  _ kriff, _ how badly had his batchmates fucked up that Grim was mourning  _ Prime? _ The man barely ever batted an eye at the decommissioning and reconditioning. For a moment, Wolffe had to wonder what he saw, and then he knew  _ exactly _ what he saw in Grim: a stupid, self sacrificing idiot, soaked on a platform, shivering in the cold,  _ demanding _ his right to give up on his own terms.

He could actually picture it a little  _ too _ well.

And Grim was too stupid to realize he had his own kind of glory. Wolffe kind of hated him for it.

Wolffe couldn’t do this right now, and yet, he wanted to do nothing else. A year and a half of quiet rage between the two of them, a year and a half of  _ silence, _ and he wanted nothing more than to fight it out in one big, explosive argument and then act like nothing happened. But that was for when they were cadets. They didn’t have the luxury of acting like cadets anymore.

“It wasn’t your right to make that decision for us,” he snapped, because he wanted to be cruel, and Grim’s fraying temper unraveled at the seam.

“It was  _ my _ right to make that decision for  _ me, _ ” he snarled, and the blankets were thrown off. “It’s not  _ your _ right to put your deaths on my head.”

“We wouldn’t have karking  _ died--- _ ”

“But you don’t know that, do you?” Grim shouted, and a silence fell between them. Tears were welling in Grim’s eyes, and Grim rose to his feet, puffing up in all the rage that had settled between them like the oceans of their home. “ _ I _ didn’t know.”

“What, you didn’t  _ trust _ us?” Wolffe demanded, because anger and  _ hurt _ was pulling at his heart, and he had nowhere to put it but right back at the source. “You thought we were  _ weak? _ ”

“If anyone knows how easy it is to break, it’s  _ me! _ ”

“Bullshit,” Wolffe snapped. “You never  _ broke. _ You went down to get decommissioned like a stupid, self sacrificing  _ shabuir, _ because even  _ then, _ you couldn’t stop thinking about  _ us. _ ”

“Well, who else did I have to think about?” Grim cried, and Wolffe couldn’t  _ take _ this. He couldn’t take the blood pounding in his veins, the white hot rage overtaking plasma, because only Grim could make selflessness selfish.

“How about  _ yourself? _ ”

“What, what was  _ left _ of it?”

“That’s not what I karking meant---”

“There wouldn’t  _ be _ anything left, Wolffe! Just a blank body primed for a new person! Who was I going to think about,  _ them? _ Like they had any  _ right _ to be there?”

“Well, if you were  _ really _ thinking about us, you would have known it wouldn’t  _ matter _ how you were gone, only that you  _ were! _ ” Wolffe’s voice broke, and for a moment, he felt tiny and vulnerable and small, and it ignited something in him, the fight or flight urge to be  _ bigger, _ to be  _ stronger, _ to be  _ enough. _ “It wouldn’t kriffing matter if you were reconditioned or decommissioned because you tried to leave us  _ behind. _ You would be gone, so what would it kriffing  _ matter? _ What would be the point?”

“The  _ point _ would be that it would be on my  _ own terms! _ ” Grim was actually crying now, like that wasn’t a one way trip to a decommissioning chamber anyways, and Wolffe’s mouth went dry, because he hadn’t meant to make him  _ cry. _ “I’m not--- I’m not something to be  _ recycled. _ You would have  _ seen _ what was left, you would have  _ known _ it used to be me,  _ known _ it wasn’t me, that you were looking at my  _ corpse _ with someone else living in it, and I couldn’t--- I didn’t--- I didn’t want to  _ die _ like that! I wanted to die  _ out here, _ fighting for something I thought was  _ right. _ I wanted to have my own glory, and that--- I thought that was the only way I could  _ get it! _ You can’t tell me I didn’t  _ deserve that! _ ”

“You didn’t deserve  _ any of it! _ There was  _ nothing _ wrong with you!” Wolffe knew Grim’s words would hurt in a different way later, bury into his chest and settle there, but right now they were burning, not cold, and he wanted them out. “But that doesn’t mean you could just--- We would have blamed ourselves no matter  _ how _ you died, you  _ bastard! _ You just went for the option that would hurt  _ worse. _ ”

“It was the choice I  _ made, _ and it looks like it worked out,” Grim snarled, and Wolffe stared at him in disbelief. “You angry, you hating me, but you made it off that blasted planet, you got to see space, you got to see a planet, but you’re  _ here, _ so I did what I had to do.”

“You don’t know that we would have been decommissioned or reconditioned!”

Grim straightened up at that, his back ramrod straight, and Wolffe met his wet gaze, trying to figure out just where everything had gone so  _ wrong. _

“I don’t,” Grim said, eerily quiet. “But I know what it was like to stand in the face of it, and I wasn’t going to risk it.”

With that, his brother, his  _ tube mate, _ turned on his heel and walked out. Wolffe watched him go, and couldn’t figure out when blacks looked so much like armor. It was only in the silence of the room that he realized everything was somehow so much worse than when they started, and he didn’t know the first thing about starting to fix it.

It was a unique kind of loneliness. Wolffe had never known it could feel so poignant.

A week later, when Grim dispassionately handed him a datapad chock full of a briefing that would never, never make it to the outside galaxy…

Well. So much for glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen they are both hurting and in a lot of pain but I PROMISE they'll make up. I PROMISE everything will be OKAY. pls don't bash Wolffe he just has NO idea how to handle this and he's like mentally barely not a teenager.
> 
> For those that skipped to the bottom, in this chapter we discover that Grim has an actual anxiety disorder, and was going to be reconditioned as a result. His response to this was essentially a suicide run in trying to steal Bric's ship with the goal of being caught and decommissioned for desertion, for several reasons. 1.) He wanted his body to stay his own, however he could get it and 2.) He had seen entire batches reconditioned and/or decommissioned following a batchmate being reconditioned because they tore each other apart with paranoia and guilt, and he mistakenly assumed that if it was clearly his fault and his choices that led to his decommissioning, his batch would manage to hold together. Wolffe does not react well to this revelation, and they fight, and a lot of Grim's ideas of his inferiority to his batchmates comes to light. It ends with Grim storming out in his blacks, and then passing the information on the chips to Wolffe at the end of the week before they leave the planet. They don't make up (for now).
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)


	16. Chapter 16

If Grim was being honest, he wasn’t all that sure about teaming up with Kenobi  _ and _ Skywalker. While he understood orders were orders and if the brass decided something was a good idea, that was it, it was a good idea, he also thought, rather privately, that the opinions of the commanders should be asked  _ first. _

Skywalker, quite frankly, was hilariously reckless and wild, Kenobi  _ barely _ had a leash on him, and with the addition of Tibalt… Well. He wasn’t going to  _ say _ Tibalt was a bad influence. By himself, he was actually quite steady and reliable. There was the crazy plan every so often, sure, but for the most part, Tibalt was well behaved. But in the past four months, Grim had started to pick up a disturbing pattern in Tibalt’s behavior with other generals.

To put it simply, Tibalt was a mimic strategist. Whatever he planned, it complemented the styles of whoever he was paired with, save for Krell. Grim had heard enough rants about General Krell to know the Council was, very likely,  _ never _ going to pair the two of them together, unless they wanted to run the risk of Tibalt’s tiny self knocking Krell on his  _ shebs _ and saying he was getting a bug for him.

In any case, the  _ problem _ with Tibalt being a mimic strategist was that Skywalker was commonly the stronger influence in the legendary Kenobi-Skywalker team-ups, and therefore Tibalt was going to complement  _ him, _ which meant there were likely going to be explosions involved. Probably too many explosions, and Grim was already having to worry about Tibalt losing his hearing, given the fact that despite Grim’s  _ insistence, _ Tibalt hadn’t been to the medbay for the past month or so, so the only  _ logical _ conclusion was that he was not hearing his harangued commander’s repeated requests to do so.

And then there was the  _ other _ problem. Kenobi’s excitement at getting a new Padawan, which meant there was going to be a  _ baby Jedi _ running around in the middle of all of this, and someone had put Tibalt and Skywalker in a room together. And Skywalker was  _ clearly _ already unhinged, having been stuck here for stars knew how long. Admiral Haas and General Beleren had barely managed to break the blockade to get men and reinforcements down to the surface, but Haas had been forced to retreat with Yularen, and with the recent betrayal of the vod named Slick, Skywalker was on  _ edge. _ Which meant he was probably  _ very _ open to blowing as many objects as physically possible up, and Tibalt was in an enabling mood lately.

Really, the only bright spot in all of this was they were finally able to get a count on how many members of the 501st and the 212th had their chips removed, and judging from the blue clouds and orange stars on the vambraces, it was  _ quite _ a lot. Both legions were almost entirely de-chipped, including a good chunk of their shinies, which was honestly  _ relieving. _ Even if the 501st had  _ no _ concept of subtlety and were openly staring at the elusive General Beleren who warned them about the chips and somehow always ended up in the right place at the right time, without fail. Including to get reinforcements down to the surface this time around.

“Your men really are not subtle, Captain,” Grim said lowly to Rex as he watched the second shiny nearly trip over a box of munitions because he was too damned busy staring at General Beleren to watch where he was going.

“I talk to them and they stare at me blankly,” Rex groused. “At this point I can’t tell if they’re just in awe at meeting him or all collectively have a crush on him.”

Grim had a vague flashback to the entire pirate crew Tibalt had charmed the socks off of and damn near climbed into bed with so he could commandeer their ship and get back to the fleet and cringed.

“Probably not the Jedi they want to be crushing on,” he muttered.

“What, he’d be offended?” Rex asked with a snort, and Grim breathed out very, very evenly.

“No. Last week he nearly got us into an orgy with a band of pirates to steal their ship.”

At  _ that, _ Rex started coughing, hard, and Grim slumped against the wall as Cody came around the corner.

“The Padawan is nearly here, look alive, gentlemen,” Cody said, and Grim snorted under his helmet, trying to ignore the tension that was picking at the back of his head at being in Cody’s presence. It wasn’t that Cody was holding anything against him, but he’d been more… cautious, since Devaron. Wolffe had probably talked to him, and Grim would much rather forget about how bad their falling out had been. Cody wasn’t going to  _ say _ anything, he had probably guessed it a long time ago, but…

But.

“Why would  _ we _ care about  _ your _ baby Jedi?” He asked in an effort to chase off the anxieties swarming around his head, and Cody tilted his head.

“Cody, did you  _ hear _ what ‘stick up his  _ shebs _ ’ Grim has been up to with his general?” Rex asked in disbelief.

“Nothing you can discuss in front of ‘baby Jedi’, I’m sure, Captain,” Cody said sharply, like they  _ would. _ But…

“Wait, you heard about that?” Grim asked as Cody jerked for the two of them to follow him to the landing zone.

“I hear a lot of stuff, vod’ika,” Cody said dryly, and  _ stars, _ the strike of fear in Grim’s heart was getting annoying. “General Kenobi likes to know who he’s about to work with.  _ And _ your general fought Dooku with him.”

Great, so Kenobi knew his general was a slut and Grim was willing to go along for the ride. This day couldn’t get any worse.

“For the record, we  _ just _ talked them down to their underwear and cuffed them and---”

“If you have to another ‘and’ to that, you already had too much fun, Grim,” Cody cut in, and Grim bit back a concentrated sound of indignation.

“I was just going to say ‘and then we stole their ship’, but okay. Well, General Beleren said ‘liberate’, but I don’t think impounding a tricked out pirate ship counts as a liberation.”

“Sure you did,” Cody replied, his voice a little  _ too _ even. “Little bird told me that ship may get a makeover soon and be permanently set aside for a certain Devaronian’s extracurricular activities.”

“Stars, I hope not,” Grim muttered under his breath. There was a  _ reason _ Etas were single seaters, and if Grim never had to sit through Tibalt navigating an asteroid field with seven pirate ships on his back again, he would probably die happy.

“There they are!” General Kenobi’s voice cut through their lazy gossip and Grim automatically straightened up as three generals eyed the approaching commanders and captain.

“Grim, you ran off on me!” Tibalt complained, rather obnoxiously, and Grim  _ almost _ winced at the side-eye General Kenobi gave him. “General Skywalker and I were just discussing the merits of blowing up a shield generator together!”

Grim’s eyes swept over his general, taking in the almost imperceptible stiffness in his shoulders. His smile was a little strained, his eyes a little unfocused, and Grim frowned under his helmet. The other two generals seemed oblivious to his obvious discomfort, which was a  _ huge _ warning flag, given that they were all supposed to be empathetic or something. Tibalt had once told him Jedi tended to forget about body language because they relied too much on their empathetic capabilities, and that one of the most important things you can learn as an undercover agent who sometimes had to lie to your fellow Jedi was shielding. Or, rather, deliberately projecting the wrong emotion for them to pick up. Was he hiding something, or were Skywalker and Kenobi just  _ very _ good at ignoring the obvious tension in his general?

“I figured there would be explosives involved, sir,” Grim said, deliberately pitching his voice into a straight monotone, and Kenobi glanced between Tibalt and him. He was probably picking up on Grim’s rapidly increasing concern. He needed to work with Tibalt on the shielding, apparently.

“I think me and Skywalker are up for it, if you’re up to defending the heavy artillery,” Tibalt said cheerfully, leaning forward on his elbows on the boulder between them, and Grim’s eyes flicked over his general state of perpetual disarray. Flyaways, singes on his tunic, a smile that was just a bit  _ too _ broad, glazed over eyes, a line of tension in his shoulders.

“If that’s what you’d like, sir, but if it’s all the same to you, if you’re going anywhere with explosives, I’d like to be there,” Grim finally replied, because something was  _ off, _ and no one was seeming to notice it. “I think General Kenobi and Cody can handle the defense.”

“General Kenobi and his  _ Padawan, _ if they ever get here,” General Kenobi corrected as he looked up at the sky.

“Looks like a gunship right there on the horizon, General,” Cody said and pointed.

“Honestly, why did they have to park the destroyers on  _ that _ side of the planet?” General Kenobi griped before turning back to their second-in-commands. “I believe you two would do well with a  _ stabilizing _ influence. Commander… Grim, was it? Should accompany you two, if Rex is being left with his men.”

“And what about the 508th?” Skywalker asked, and Kenobi hummed, idly stroking his beard.

“We only got a fraction of it, didn’t we?”

“I only got two companies in,” Tibalt reported. “So only about two hundred men.”

“All experienced, generals,” Grim cut in. “We managed to bring some ARC troopers.”

“We’ll need the ARC troopers,” Skywalker decided. “How many?”

“Two, sir,” Grim said and eyed Tibalt as the tension slowly escaped his shoulders. Weird. It was  _ really _ unlike him to get worked up about being left alone without clones. He tried to take the dangerous missions solo as often as physically possible. Was this a Force thing? “Hawks and Coldpress.”

“Hawks and Coldpress will do, and I’d like Domino Squad with me. This is a speed and stealth mission, so we want a minimum of troops with us,” Tibalt decided as the last of the tension in his shoulders escaped and his eyes grew a little more focused. Grim’s eyes flicked between him and Skywalker, wondering what the hell happened when he wasn’t glued to his side like always, but the whine of a gunship interrupted their decision making process.

As one, the generals and commanding officers turned to look up at the descending gunship, and Tibalt tipped his head in confusion, scratching at his horns in that way that he did when he was thoroughly perplexed. Next to him, Skywalker let out an equally confused huff, and Kenobi put his hand up over his eyes as the gunship set down and opened its doors to reveal…

What?

Vode in blue paint slid out, meaning the transport must have landed with Yularen before they were all forced out, and Grim squinted at the  _ two _ mini Jedi stepping out of the gunship. A Togruta female, with dusky red skin and cream and blue lekku, dressed in a  _ tube top, _ (who let a child go into a war zone with  _ that _ little protection), lightsaber on her hip and head tilted as her eyes flicked between the three Jedi. Another mini Jedi followed her, a salmon pink Quarren in a sleeveless gray Jedi tunic, safety goggles set on their head, two sabers strapped to a thick belt, and a black kama of all things over the baggy gray Jedi pants tucked into black boots.

The two were  _ clearly _ barely teenagers. The Togruta couldn’t be more than fourteen, and the Quarren had to be about the same age. Didn’t apprenticeships generally start younger than that, anyways? Tibalt had told him they lasted around ten years, even though his own had only lasted eight, but there were extenuating circumstances. The youngest Jedi Knights he knew were Skywalker and Tibalt, and the ones older than that were in their early twenties or the species equivalent. These Padawans were…  _ old. _

… The war effort.

A stone dropped in his gut as he realized just why these kids were here and looking so old. None of the other masters must have wanted them, but they were losing knights too fast and had to fill the ranks rather than send the young ones to the corps like they generally did with aged out Initiates that didn’t get picked. Which meant either they had personality issues, or they just weren’t very strong.

“Wasn’t there supposed to only be one?” Rex muttered in their internal comms, and Grim tilted his head.

“Don’t think my general had a Padawan coming. He would’ve told us.”

“Skywalker  _ definitely _ didn’t, he’s been complaining about the Council bugging him to pick one for a week now,” Rex replied.

“Master Skywalker,” the Togruta said and strode forward to the general before bowing politely. “My name is Ahsoka Tano. I’m your Padawan.”

“So, you’re mine?” General Kenobi asked the Quarren as Skywalker dissolved into a coughing fit.

“Sorry, what?” Skywalker wheezed as the Quarren paused in obvious discomfort.

“No, I’ve been assigned to Knight Beleren,” they said, and now  _ Grim _ was choking, because  _ what? _

Not with Tibalt’s thermal detonator obsession, they kriffing were. No kriffing way.  _ No. _

“Pull yourself together, vod’ika,” Cody hissed as Grim fell into a coughing fit while Tibalt looked panicked as  _ hells, _ Kenobi looked wildly lost, and Skywalker looked  _ beyond _ pissed.

“I want to put  _ General Beleren _ in a child harness on a daily basis, and they want me to keep track of a  _ baby Jedi _ too?” Grim hissed as he coughed harshly into his helmet.

“Well, don’t panic in front of the Jedi cadet!” Rex whispered. “They can smell fear!”

“There’s got to be a mistake, Master Kenobi was the only one that asked for a Padawan,” Tibalt said, sounding just a  _ little _ desperate, and he  _ just _ got calmed down, kriffing  _ hells. _

“No, you’re definitely my master,” the Quarren said, unbearably patient. “I’m Florrun Qin. I’ve got the paperwork right here.”

The Padawan pulled a datapad out of seemingly nowhere and offered it to Tibalt, who nearly snatched it out of their hand and looked it over.

“ _ Why _ would they do this,” Tibalt asked, making it sound more like a statement as Skywalker just  _ glowered _ at the poor Togruta who hadn’t asked for this harsh welcome.

“I imagine they thought you would be best suited to guide me through the psychological trauma of puberty,” the Quarren stated, completely deadpan, though there was an undercurrent of amusement in their tone. “Seeing as there are not many Knights or Masters like…”

The Quarren trailed off, and Grim vaguely felt the need to collapse, because of  _ course _ they were going to be funny. Of course. This was going to be a  _ nightmare. _

“Breathe, vode,” Cody said, his voice  _ far _ too amused to be soothing Grim and Rex as they both stood there in various degrees of unseen panic.

“What does that even mean?” Tibalt demanded. “Mace and Yoda  _ know _ what I have on my plate, how am I supposed to…?” A frustrated noise escaped his lips and he turned aside as Skywalker just flat out demanded the Togruta’s paperwork… Commander Tano?

… Grim was going to be taking orders from an actual child. Fantastic.

“I assume you do what you need to do with dignity,” the Quarren drawled,  _ entirely _ too snide for a teenager, or perhaps just snide enough, and Tibalt stared at them for a long, long moment.

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re not assigned to Kenobi?” He asked, just as the thought darted across Grim’s mind at the same mind, and Kenobi made an affronted noise.

“I would have never mouthed off in such a way as a Padawan,” he said, thoroughly offended, and Tibalt gave him a disparaging look.

“All due respect, Master Kenobi, that was probably a detriment to you, with a Master like Qui-Gon Jinn,” he retorted and Kenobi opened and shut his mouth several times.

“You aren’t wrong, but do you mind,  _ Knight _ Beleren?” He said, and the three officers exchanged glances in the face of a bizarre instance of Jedi rank pulling.

“General right now, General,” Tibalt said smugly, apparently getting it together at subsonic speeds. “Alright, Florrun, I don’t know if this is some kind of paperwork snafu, but we’re in the middle of a battle right now, so we’ll get it worked out when this is over. Meantime, let’s introduce you to the vode you’ll be getting to know while you’re stuck with me. Grim!”

“Yessir!” Grim swapped to external comms and snapped to attention and Tibalt waved him over to a ways away from the fuming Skywalker and Kenobi focusing his attempts on pacifying them. Tibalt probably just wanted to get out of  _ that _ ‘family drama’.

“Florrun, this is Commander Grim,” Tibalt said. “ _ Technically, _ you outrank him, or have the same rank, since you’re Commander Qin out here, but he’s been through a good chunk of battles with me, has way more experience than your tiny self, so he’s in charge. If he gives you an order for the foreseeable future, you follow it. Grim, this is Padawan Florrun Qin. Florrun, pronouns?”

“They/them, Master,” Florrun said with a slight bow, and Grim overlooked them critically. They needed some armor. There was a collection of tools on their wide belt and a pouch, likely for tinkering, and he breathed out a prayer that they wouldn’t turn a fighter or stars forbid  _ The Anticipation _ itself into a pet project. He’d heard horror stories from other commanders with gearhead Jedi,  _ including _ Rex.

“Nice to meet you, Commander,” Grim said as he  _ really _ took in his apparent co-Commander for the time being. Dappled salmon pink skin, deep set, small, blue eyes, three thick fingers on each hand, goggles on their head, with a small cut on their left protruding... lekku? What were they called on Quarren? They  _ really _ didn’t belong on a desert planet like Christophis. Did they have sunscreen on? They were going to get burned, and he  _ knew _ that skin was going to get dried out  _ very _ easily. “... Hope you packed your sunscreen.”

“I did, Commander,” Commander Qin said with a deep incline of their head, perfectly polite and sweet as sugar, like they hadn’t just mouthed off to their master who was  _ apparently _ still on the fence about even  _ accepting _ them.

Fearless. Polite. That was going to be a problem.

“Alright, Florrun, you got here at a  _ really _ weird time, so why don’t I fill you in while Kenobi, uh, explains the virtues to Skywalker. Sometimes he needs refreshers,” Tibalt said and very painfully obviously steered the three of them away from The Negotiator trying to calm down the frantic Skywalker.

No wonder Kenobi was such a sweet talker, raising a menace like that.

“So, we’re about to slip in and take out a shield generator with Skywalker and Tano, was it? That’s been giving us some grief,” Tibalt explained while Grim gave him yet another once over to make sure he wasn’t about to have a freakout. There had been a building meltdown in these past few months, and Grim was  _ really _ hoping Tibalt was going to do his best to time it for the  _ end _ of this battle.

“The shield generator?” Florrun repeated and stood on their tiptoes for the  _ briefest _ of moments to look over Tibalt’s head.

Oh. Oh, they were going to be taller than Tibalt.

That was going to hit his pride  _ hard. _

“Yeah, the generator. How well do you know Tano?” Tibalt asked and Florrun tilted their head.

“We’re the last of our age batch in our creche,” they replied, and Tibalt paused, something flickering in his eyes ever so swiftly.

“You mean your other crechemates were already apprenticed, yes?”

“One of them died,” Florrun said, and Tibalt pursed his lips as Grim struggled to remember what crechemates meant.

… Like batchmates?

…  _ Oh. _

“May they be one with the Force,” Tibalt said, something Grim had been hearing a lot of. “You’ve been training in Jar’Kai?”

“Yes,” Florrun said with a grave incline of their head. They were going to be losing that gravitas soon if they stuck around Tibalt.

“Great. How long have you known that you’re going to be with me?”

“Less than one week.”

“So you haven’t brushed up on my styles, then,” Tibalt said thoughtfully. “Jar’Kai pairs well with Tràkata. I’ll get you running through specialized katas soon. In the meantime… Let’s meet the Domino squad and our ARC boys escorting us to the shield generator.”

Grim was still  _ utterly _ beside himself that an actual adult taught such a borderline suicidal style to Tibalt and it was  _ accepted. _ And the fact that the style had been specifically developed over thousands of years was just  _ anxiety-inducing, _ and Grim already had quite a lot of anxiety, thank you  _ kindly. _ A Jedi on their last deployment had mentioned, entirely too offhandedly for Grim’s tastes, that Tibalt was probably going to be considered a master of the form in a few years. There was even more mention that he was on the fast track for the Council at this rate, might even be the youngest Council member in history, and all Grim could think about was the fact that he had once seen Tibalt plop himself into a pirate’s lap and ply him with liquor for Separatist secrets rather than just  _ pay _ what the man was demanding of the Republic. And it had  _ worked. _ Stars, he sincerely hoped Tibalt would tone down on the sluttiness with a kid hanging around.

“Grim, do you mind?” Tibalt asked, and Skywalker’s voice went up a few notches, prompting an almost-flinch Tibalt managed to hide just in time. Yeah, it was time to get him out of here.

“Right this way, sir,” Grim replied and tilted his head. “They’re prepping the speeders.”

“So, Anakin wants to be a little wild, but I think I can mitigate the level of insanity,” Tibalt said, launching right into it as he strode off with Grim, Florrun falling onto his heels. “Florrun, have you received leadership modules?”

“Yes,” Florrun replied. “I’ve also been studying battle tactics in my spare time. Just in case. I’ve memorized all of Tarre Vizla’s methods, since the vode are Mandalorian-trained and I thought they would be most familiar with his tactics.”

“Excellent,” Tibalt said warmly. “A great choice, too. He was a very cautious leader. I’m not sure if he was included in their education modules, though.”

“Oh.” Florrun deflated just a little, and Tibalt patted them on the shoulder.

“Historically speaking, Florrun.”

Grim had no idea what the kriff a ‘Tarre Vizla’ was, but he was going to stay quiet. Self esteem and all. He’d look it up when they got off this planet and had some downtime.

“Now, Grim, can you be my sounding board? Since I seem to be missing a few generals,” Tibalt asked, cheerful as ever, and Grim resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the mess unfolding behind them. “I’m thinking we have some fun with the speeders. You know how Domino loves them.”

… Oh, no.

“I’m not sure you should be let near the speeders. Sir.”

Tibalt actually laughed at that and shot Florrun a conspiratorial wink.

“He thinks I’m too reckless with my own body,” he whispered, like Grim wasn’t right there. “Should I prove him right?”

  
“I think you should do as the Force wills it, Master,” Florrun said with a completely straight face, and Grim internally cried at the Jedi-translation he already knew what that was. Just his damned  _ luck _ he got an enabler. Stars  _ dammit. _ He was going to love this kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the trauma have a BABY!!!!!!!! I have been sitting on Florrun for AGES I'm so happy to share aren't they a DARLING???
> 
> tumblr: [ psychicshr00m](https://psychicshr00m.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided that it is time for me to branch out and so here I am. Also it is incredibly weird that I never wrote any Star Wars fanfiction.


End file.
